WET

Every wet day I watch the wild sea churn

As it drinks up the drops of each downpour

And hurls them hard across the shingly shore,

As if to warn them never to return.

On those black days the charcoal sky can stoop

To hide high birds and touch the tallest trees.

The wind puffs out patches of pale blue tease

And clouds explode like bombs in guided swoop.

Branches drip cold and feed voracious shrubs

And grass grows gold and green in flower beds;

While soaked petals droop and descend in shreds

From stunted sterile stems and stalks like stubs.

But it’s the chill, severe in sodden air,

That makes me wish for springtime’s garish glare.