By Clare Conlon

Location: Hawthorn Lane, between Chorlton and Stretford

The branches shake themselves,
Like a freshly dipped dog.
A hundred thousand glistening baubles
Shower down and crack open on the ground,
Spilling out a shiny confusion.
Ponds now stand
Where paths once ran;
The river and road course forwards as one.
Puddles hold dark secrets,
Their depths difficult to navigate
In the tunnel of trees.
At the end: bright light.
We emerge, blinking, roused from a dream.
The rain has gone, here comes the sun.

Clare Conlon lives in Chorlton and spends her time writing, editing and drying off in pubs after exploring the rainy city on her trusty Shopper, Celia. http://wordsandfixtures.blogspot.com/