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 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…?
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.
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 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 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.
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.
