It rained and rained,
and I got wet,
it soaked me through;
and, yes, I caught pneumonia,
double, died;
and then the rain stopped,
the Sun came out,
and all things dried;
it was a lovely day,
but a shame I’d died.
Leaking from above,
falling damp meets rising damp;
I soak it all up.
Well, what a lovely day, today is,
and it’s the only today that we’ve got,
it owns a bucket full of weather,
which is really rather a lot.
.
I’m out now in the rain,
and the wind, and the damp, and the cold,
it’s a bit of a joke, the weather,
one that’s never growing old.
.
There’s fog and mist and mizzle,
all for a soul to endure;
and, betwixt the frost and drizzle,
there’s another bucket more.
Breezy, breezier, breeziest –
I should take the route that’s easiest;
but I don’t, because that is not how I roll
and rock –
two steps forward, one step back,
of progress I seem to have a lack,
but make it I shall,
I know that I will,
or, given time, I shall be here still.
Seagulls flying backwards,
(It’s such a wet windy day)
busy going nowhere,
with nothing much to say.
I had a whirlwind romance…
with a whirlwind;
she took me in,
and then she blew me out!
It’s an auspicious day;
however, I’m suspicious about the fact
that it’s raining again –
like it did in May;
and nothing really changes,
it just comes back time
and time again
in a slightly different order
(exactly like my poems)
weather you like it
or them
or not.
What a lovely day
for a street par-tay,
celebrating seventy years of rain.
Hot and sweaty in the sunshine,
cool in the shade –
hot drinks, to warm us up;
to cool us, cold lemonade
Wet Wednesday week,
It’s raining buckets again –
buckets, I have lots.
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Graeme Sandford 