Rainy-Day Responses
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.
Goodwill
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.
Frost Song
On the second morning afterly
The Feast of Middle-Winter,
I walked-out with my true-love
Through the brittle lambent-glinter –
I walked-out with my true-love
Till our cheeks were flush with pinking,
And I asked my wind-teased beauty
To me whisper of her thinking.
The said she thought of Crystal Jack,
A diligent delinquent,
Who caught the sun and shone it back
As glistered-golden clinquant.
I walked-out with my true-love
’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam,
And so we warmed each other’s breaths
Until the starlings bid us home.
Listen, Children…
Listen to the east-wind as it rattles at the window latch…
Listen to the mice behind the skirting…scritter-scratter-scratch…
Listen to the garden foxes gnawing on some unearthed bones…
And listen to the creaking and the thumping and the sighing groans…
Now the sun has gone to bed and now that night has spread its gloom,
Then shall I tell you, children, of the ghost that haunts this very room ?
Listen closely…closer still…behind the death-watch beetle’s click…
And there he is…the ghost of time…the never-ending tick-tick-tick…
Shall I tell you, children, shall I tell you what is worse than witches ?
Scarier than sprites and spectres…filling sleep with sweats and twitches…?
Listen then…and listen for the tiny voice on nights like this…
The tiny voice that ev’ry child must hear…must hear its icy hiss…
Never witches…never spectres…nothing ever living on…
Nothing from an afterlife, and nothing but oblivion…
Listen…can you hear it ? Can you hear the voice from the abyss…?
Listen to the tiny voice that terrifies on nights like this…
The Water Cycle
The rain returns
Like we know it will,
Like we know it must.
It’s only rain –
The sky shall spill
To wash the dust.
So rain returns,
And gutters rill,
And railings rust –
But thanks to rain
The wheat-heads fill,
The green shoots thrust.
The rain returns –
It cycles still,
On this we trust.
September
Birds are flocking,
Doors are locking,
Autumn’s knocking once again.
Seeds are podding,
Berries nodding,
Workers plodding from the train.
Skies are frowning,
Leaves are browning,
Hats are crowning, coats are on.
Days are cooling,
Rains are pooling,
Kids are schooling –
Summer’s gone.
Open Season
August is a month that’s open wide,
When windows welcome in outside
And shoulders sport their freckles with a pride.
August is a month of empty woes,
Of open necks and open toes,
And bright unfolded blooms upon the rose.
August is a month of busy highs,
With covered heads and shaded eyes,
But still with smiles as open as the skies.
Heavy Weather
I try really hard, really hard
Not to moralise weather.
It is what it is, what it was,
What it will be forever.
The sun isn’t good, isn’t bad,
It is nothing aware –
And the rain is the rain, just the rain,
And the rain doesn’t care.
The sun will soon shine soon enough,
To relieve soggy sorrow –
So don’t think me bad if I think that
It might rain tomorrow.
The Ant-Days of Summer
I think it must have been a day
When ants were flying
In July.
A long and hot and wingèd day
When ants were flying
By and by.
And that was when we chanced to meet,
With grounded ants about our feet.
Those virgin queens and horny males,
On scorching days
In late July.
The queens fly fast to test the males
On scorching days
When ants must fly.
The lads were swarming when we met –
But then, one shot is all they get.
The lucky males take turns to mate
With picky queens
In late July.
Upon the wing, the ants shall mate –
As jacks and queens
Shall fill the sky.
And I met you beneath their flights,
With royal weddings in our sights.
The girls bite off their wings to reign
As wingless queens
In late July
These girls will never fly again –
But hey, the queens
At least don’t die !
And you and I were changing lives,
As queens got down to digging hives.
Precipitation
The rain, it rains like rainy rain,
The time, it ticks so slow.
It soaks the garden, soaks the lane,
It soaks the overflow
Won’t it ever shine again ?
Won’t it ever go ?
We curse these clouds we undergo,
We curse this ever-rain –
But still the gullies rush and flow
And wash the boggy lane.
Oh, must the day creep by so slow,
And with so little gain ?
We check the window once again,
We watch the drops that flow.
Perhaps the clouds are bored of rain,
Have somewhere else to go ?
Check the garden, check the lane –
Not too quick. Be slow.
It hasn’t yet begun to slow,
It’s coming hard again.
It should’ve stopped an age ago,
Instead it has free rein.
So down to earth the clouds all flow
Upon the roof and lane.
We long to be upon the lane
Where blooms the indigo,
We long the garden to regain
Between the may and sloe.
Instead, the clouds forever reign,
Like icebergs in a floe.
So round and round our thought must flow –
The clouds. The time. The lane.
And like the day, they crawl so slow,
As round they crawl again.
They’re stuck with us, nowhere to go –
And still comes down the rain.
This is a sestina, whereby the six endwords are repeated each verse in a different order. Tradition also requires a seventh mini-verse, or envoy, to round things off, but I’ve never seen the point.
Rhyming Couplets 