Umbrella

The sound of drips falling from the gutter
onto a windowsill, the motion of rain
passing through air on its way to earth,
the deep hiss of tyres on wet road
and I am remembering your funeral,
my mother's umbrella, hearing
some bone-achingly simple piano music
as they slid your coffin from the hearse
and lifted it high through the door of the chapel,
and a boy I knew long ago who
tormented his dog with the language
and gestures of play, so that we were confused
about what he was doing
with his foot on the animal's soft belly.