no singing in the rain

Summer died
that night* our turning point
the harvest moon on cue
a watershed of rain
walls all awash
colours running down
bleed into the street
beneath disjointed feet
cut to the kiss me quick
my hat pulled over dead eyes
fatally farewelled
whilst he made haste
made love the end of it
fast foot-stepping puddles
as if to put the past
as far behind as summer

With thanks to Dylan (Hughes not Bob) for the First Line Friday * prompt as I pop into the pantry at Poets United