Thursday, August 21, 2014


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.

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