It Rains in My Heart

The sweet fennel and anise scent of absinthe curls its way out of the window.

Monsieur Verlaine, says mum, sniffing the air. Would you like a mug of tea?

As you see, madam, says Paul Verlaine, glowering, I already have something to drink.

Absinthe, says mum. I used to drink that, as a girl. It was green.

It's still green, says Paul Verlaine.

But surely, says mum, you don't drink it out of a flask? I remember all sorts of paraphernalia, special absinthe glasses and intricately fashioned metal spoons for adding the sugar.

Not when camping, says Paul.

So what about some nice billy tea then? says mum.

No thank you, says Paul. I'm quite busy.

What are you up to? says mum. Sitting here in your Jeep all alone. Writing a novel?

I was composing a poem, says Paul. And I shall continue to do so when you leave.

A poem? says mum. About what?

Arthur, said Paul, blackly.

Arthur? Are you and he friends then? asks mum.

We were inseparable, groans Paul. We fought with knives rolled in towels. When one of us bled we repaired to the pub. It was wonderful. But one day I brought home a fish. Arthur laughed at me. I whacked him about the head with it, and stormed off to Brussels.

Now I'm sure that's not all of the story, says mum. But I see you're not over him yet. Why don't you show me the poem.

Paul shows her the poem, which he has called It Rains in My Heart:

It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town
What languor so dark
That soaks to my heart?

Paul, says mum. I'm pretty sure I read that in school. Couldn't you write something new?

Paul's bloodshot eyes stare in horror at mum. Is he dreaming or has she turned green?