Sashes & Splashes
I love to hear the raindrops from the dry-side of the window,
As they pitter-patter on the misty glass, kept well at bay –
The panes become my armour from the showers and the wind,
So I can watch the running rivulets, a quarter-inch away.
Gods’ Breath
Cry out your name to the wind,
As it gathers and flies,
Let it carry your name on its wing
To the edge of the skies.
Cry out your name to the wind,
And the wind replies –
“I am Aneurin, I am Belinda,
The unseen and wise.
Now I am Cormac, blowing, blowing,
Davina rising, Ezra free –
Soon to be Fortune, waiting, growing –
Filling the sails at mill and sea.
I am the storm and the maelstrom twinned,
The harbinger-bringer, the hurricane eyes !”
So cry out your name to the wind,
And your name shall rise.
Season’s Fleetings
How can the Midwinter feast be here,
So far from the middle of Winter ?,
When Autumn’s leaves are barely down,
And frost has yet to hit the town ?
How can the shortest day be near
So far from the chill of Winter ?
We feast on pudding by the wedge
Before we’ve eaten up our veg.
But wait…the snowdrops soon appear
In what was once still Winter –
If Advent sees the last of Fall,
Then Burns Night sees the Springtime call.
The thaw before the freeze each year
Will warm and squeeze the Winter –
We’ve brandy butter on our snouts
Before we’ve eaten up our sprouts.
Nicholmas Daisies
They seem to be lasting for longer each year,
So long past September and into December –
For even in frost and in sleet, they appear –
Still shining in bloom on the thermal frontier.
And I have seen violets outlast their season,
And snowdrops and hellebores turning up early doors.
I wonder if climate change offers a reason ?,
For something is urging these flowers and trees on.
The branches are bare, but the apples still mellow –
We’ve bred them so hardy, it just makes them tardy.
Surprises of colour make strange bedding-fellows,
With the roses still red as the crocus bursts yellow.
I’ve always found the habit of naming flowers after the saints on whose feast day they bloom to be a shaky tradition in Europe, when one considers our pot-luck temperate maritime climate. Will there be an overnight host of golden St John’s wort on the 24th of June every year ? With our climate, the closest you can come is within a month. And of course, Easter brings its own complications.
A Year without a Summer
April was sulky this year,
And May was too shy,
And June was a truant who failed to appear,
And then came the tantrums of jealous July,
And August was but an imposter
Who left us quite sober,
And as for September, it seems we had lost her –
And soon we were greeting the gloom of October.
So where had our Summer gone, all Summer long ?
Hiding above the clouds, he was.
His rain was heavy, his wind was strong,
And as to why – well, just because…
But that is the way of the weather, we say,
He’s always been fickle round here –
When all four seasons are met in a day,
Yet no Summer met in a year.
Not a comment on this year’s actual weather, just a general mope when we get a bit of rain.
Brolly Dolly
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 !
April Smarts
We sense the sun is on the scout,
With Winter nothing but a pout,
And Spring a whisper to a shout,
And mornings quite the charm.
But hold, before we’re dashing out
And leaving coats to hang about,
For dressing down, not dressing stout,
Could lead us into harm.
I know the sun is warm today,
But sneaky Spring has form, they say –
He loves to send a storm our way !
Yet no cause for alarm…
Just run your mornings by the book
And take your coat down off the hook,
To lodge it safely in the crook
Of a shirt-and-cardy arm.
Downpour
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 !
Like rain…
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 bad-bye ? Worth a try ?
But 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 wonders – 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…?
Bashful Bulbs
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.
Rhyming Couplets 