A WET MORN IN ENGLAND
A cold thistledown damp plays across my face
while faint droplet taps try in vain to cling to glass,
sliding down in game show rivulets.
Everything is murky grey,
dour, mood smothering and ashen.
Car tyres on rain sodden tarmac, their tinny surge
and dull bass seem frantic, impatient and contrasts
with the shy rustle of water falling on Beech leaves.
A lone Bumble Bee rolls past,
it’s flight erratic as it’s buffeted and shoved,
while a single Blackbird chirps, anger exploding
at random and in protest.
The rain is as if bored, idly making polka dots
on flat surfaces, odd coin shaped marks
appearing here and there.
And from the broken gutter plummets
a not planned for waterfall.
I can tell, It’ll rain all day.