What is it with black umbrellas ?
Only make the weather darker !
When the skies are less than stellar,
Do not make them even starker !
Make our brollies blue and gold,
A private sunbeam to unfold –
The overcast may make us pout,
But when it rains, the sun comes out !
This rain is the rain of Poseidon,
The bullets of Buddha,
The stair-rods of Heaven –
It’s raining all over,
From Doha to Dover,
From Denver to Devon –
The swimmers must swim
And the timid must drown,
While the conquering thunder is taking the town.
This rain is the weeping of Angels,
The bleeding of Furies,
The flooding of Hades –
The wrath of the mountains,
The succour of fountains,
The drencher of ladies –
The cats follow dogs,
And the grey follows brown,
And it looks like it ain’t going nowhere but down !
Now, where was I again ?
Thinking, I think, about my thoughts,
And how many do I have each day ?-
How many zeros-worth, would I say ?
And should I call them ohs or noughts ?
And why is seven longer than eight ?
And eight o’clock, is that too late ?
So when does evening turn into night ?
And goodnight – must it mean goodbye ?
Can we say badbye ? If not, why ?
And is it really worth the fight ?
Boxing ? I’ve never seen the draw, Unless the glove is hiding a claw,
A mutant from a mad professor !
And don’t forget a screaming blond,
Unless it’s bleached and we’ve been conned !
Poor mum was scammed just last month, bless her.
Just last month ? Or the month before ?
They go so quick, I’m never sure…
But why no ‘h’ in ‘sure’, I wonder ?
Seven, weren’t there ? Pyramids…
I used to love them…them, and squids…
They’ve got some giant ones, Down Under.
Down…below the upper feathers…
Have they feathers round their nethers ?
Where do birds go in the rain ?
Still pouring, by the sound,
My thoughts just spinning round and round.
Now, where was I again…?
Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.
Sooner or later, we all sing a song to the rain,
And those who have sung them before can all sing them again.
Later or sooner, we all pray a prayer to the skies,
And those who have prayed them before can all lead the replies.
The days are so short, late of the year –
Won’t you come on in ?
When the sun is down, and the frost is near,
And the gales begin.
But there’s always a shelter under our gable,
There’s always an extra chair at the table
For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able
To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year –
We’re chilled to the skin.
It gets so hard to volunteer
And rattle the tin.
But there’s always a welcome here in our home
To help turn the grey to polychrome,
For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam,
While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year,
And we just can’t win,
With the thanks so small, and the price so dear,
And our patience thin.
But there’s always a place at the table that’s set
For the unbidden guest coming in from the wet,
In time to remind what we often forget:
That there’s always room at the inn.