Fine But Cloudy
I must have met you
twenty thousand million years ago,
somewhere among mountains,
the peaks were streaked with snow.
I was some kind of climber,
had my haversack and rope.
I looked up and saw you,
dressed in grey, walking down a slope.
You look determined,
your concentration was on me.
The vision vanished.
That is all I was allowed to see.
Sat in my chair, you are not there,
but I see and feel you everywhere.
Today will be fine but cloudy,
the weatherman tells me on the radio.
He reads his instruments well,
for when I look out of my window,
I see it is fine but cloudy.
The clouds pass slow and high.
The sun is warm for September.
It could be July.
Aviators hone their craft in the air
while diving bells plunge to the ocean floor.
I deem it is just as much an adventure
to rise from your chair and open the door.
Sat in my chair, I look up,
and you are there.
I’ve been trying to understand it
ever since I was at school,
the history that I’m part of,
the work done by a rusted tool.
It seems some men wanted power,
others helped them steal and slay,
but those who gained the empire throne
knew nothing that they held would stay.
In the midst of it all I met you
twenty thousand million years ago.
Today is fine but cloudy,
the peaks are clear of snow.
There will be no hose pipe ban,
not with all this rain.
It patters on the shed roof,
trickles down the drain.
Tap water for your watering can
you will not need again.
The red path of the heat wave
arched over upper air,
swelled the high summer days,
now it is not there.
September will soon be here.
Lower in the sky,
sun will deepen colours, ripen apples,
as geese rise and fly.
The Snow Queen in her sleigh
waits for snow to fall.
Once again I’ll hope to see
a robin on the wall.
Listen to the water tune
rain plays in the yard.
Too fine for a pipe or flute,
to learn would be hard.
Reservoirs are filling up,
threat of drought has gone.
Somewhere swans swim on the lakes,
rivers roll roughly on.
No shelter for the sparrows.
Seagulls cry from the shore.
Deck chairs forgot in beach huts,
not needed anymore.
No Thunder Yet
No thunder yet, best be wary though, could be soon,
weather men warn.
Later, clouds lower, bulge, darken,
turn black, dark blue, swollen
with trapped tempests.
Bomber plane bold, they frighten, threaten.
Like tables for a banquet set
spread summer gardens,
defiantly green, yellow.
Birds, butterflies, moths and bees,
the invited guests,
observed by magpie servants in the trees.
For now, storms stay south,
but lightning could come,
to flash on roofs, crack horizons.
If I live that long,
maybe I will have my moment,
like King Lear on the heath,
find words to have my say,
my silent soul will speak,
prove that I see clearly through poverty and pomp.
What I learned of life’s unfairness I would condemn,
its brief beauty praise.