Sunday

i early morning The rain, gray god with its huge hands has shredded the roses, and clapping, kept us up all night, the bridge washed out, the troll waiting to gobble a goat. How long has he been there, wet and cold, impatient, starving, his coat rent with welts and matted with mist? Father, thundering, his voice full of  bracken and leaves, leaves that in the autumn clogged the gutters.Who goes over the bridge? Who goes there?