It seems like ages since I last did a blog entry. I've been terribly lax about it, and I have absolutely no excuses! Maybe it's something to do with the weather, or maybe I've just been lazy . . .
And here's a poem to commemorate our soggy summer of 2012. . .
AugustRain can have its beauties, yes, I know;
refreshing rain in spring to rouse the seeds
and rain after drought reviving thirsty flowers,
lyric rain in metaphor of endless tears,
and city rain at night
drawing the glow from streetlights
in liquid orange droplets,
'policeman's weather' as an old man I once knew
would call it, remembering his own time on the beat
when Dixon-era villains stayed at home on rainy nights.
And thunderstorms I love, all bluster, noise and drama,
the flash and scent of lightning in the air
with all the thrilling chance of mortal hazard.
Yes, rain can have its beauties . . .
But not today.
Not yesterday either, or the day before,
not in week repeating week of rain,
rain every day and night
as though the clouds will never be empty
wasting our precious summer in grey skies,
our days enclosed in walls and raincoats,
when glutted storm-drains cannot hold
all that water any more
as it quarries away
down gutters and gullies
carrying rubbish and cigarette-ends.
And children at the curtained windows watch
the rain as it washes
each minute of their holiday away.