Grey upon grey,
the next layer,
even greyer,
than the one before,
a mixture twixt mizzle and mist,
with heighth, and width, and depth,
all eager to show… nothing,
to hide all,
and live for the moment
in total concealment,
avoiding avidly prying eyes
and random inquisitive glances.
“There are storms at sea!” said Stormzy;
and, wouldn’t you know it, he was right;
although, he had been saying this since the day he could talk,
morning, noon and night,
They called him the ‘Weather Messiah’,
and a lot of other names as well,
A wonderful fella,
but, a weather teller?
Oh, well, he might be,
you never can tell.
The breeze in the trees,
accompanied by a chill
that was liable to freeze,
and stimulating rain showers,
made my heart go all a-flutter.
‘Pitter-patter!’ falls the rain.
‘Brrrr!’ goes my soul.
Whilst the wind whistles a
wailing, and a wassailing;
whilst whispering under it all,
‘Well, what do you think of all this, Wusses?’
It’s a lovely day
It’s a lovely day
for someone
but not me;
it’s raining on my head
and blowing a hooley;
I’m sure that I can see
that it’s a lovely day
for someone
but not me.
It’s a lovely day
somewhere
but not here;
It’s hailstorms, rain, and thunder
causing fear;
and I’m hearing in my ear,
that it’s a lovely day
somewhere
but not here.
I was out in all the weathers the other day, and this is the poem I wrote whilst the rain seeped into my head, and the cold infiltrated my body, blowing the cobwebs away.
My ears are cold,
my body old,
but, my heart is bold.
My limbs no longer tend to fold,
and my grip, on reality, has less of a hold;
my mind has veins
of purest gold;
but my groin… has mould,
which can be fatal,
or so I’m told.
When the rains subside,
they beg to go outside,
and we catch the moment.
Swiftly we walk
along country lanes,
and inhale the freshness
that lays all about –
buried, as it is,
under fallen leaves and twigs.
In Cornwall, twixt the mist and drizzle,
which is something that’s called the Cornish Mizzle;
for, it’s when two like things do meld as one;
that they become a confladum.
In Transylvania, long ago,
there was a thing that joined, just so;
a twilight rising of the mist
known back then as the Transylvania Twist.
“Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist? spoke Dracula.
Then, he hastened to add, “It is so sorely mist!”
Thus he spoke from his castle keep
when he deemed to arise from his daytime sleep.
Looking out windows,
seeing the pourtentous sky
relieving itself.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #poetry. #poem, #WetWeather, Cornwall, Kernow, Rain, weather
Here comes Tony,
Here comes Heather,
Here they come again;
it’s puzzle weather.
Every time it’s rains,
it’s always the same
here comes Tony,
here comes Heather;
“Have you got a game?
It’s puzzle weather!”
