Thursday, February 15, 2007


We lean into winter, gray
with a long fall of gritty rain,
almost anxious for the day

when the slide and slap of dropping leaves
is tricked into clatter by the cold,
and we see the muddy carpet freeze.

The paper promised sun today:
drizzle hisses in the street,
and one wet starling frays

out on the wire, unequal to air
that’s not quite water, not quite ice,
slowly learning not to care.

Then another one comes, another,
then suddenly a hundred, two;
they plump themselves, clump together.

There is a lot to be said for a splash
of local spirit, an extra log,
weathered companions, tight sash.


Atyllah said...

Oh lovely, almost made me long for winter ;-)

Cailleach said...

The last stanza cosies in the whole poem. I like that a lot and the time spent actually observing what rain does. Thanks.

Minx said...

Very funny, Atyllah. I hate the Cornish 'mizzle' (mist and drizzle) but at the moment we seem to be in some sort of monsoon season. Thanks John, but I just want to be dry!

Shameless said...

made me feel wet, john, which i suppose was the aim. very nice.
i like the paintings too. are they yours, you talented man?

John said...

That's the nice thing about weather, isn't it? Whatever godawful changes it's putting us through at the moment, we can always hope for a turn for the better. What comes--that's another story...

The paintings, Shameless? They're "paintings," actually--digital, some made from photos and some from fractals. I do acrylics on the easel, but I've never found the secret of photographing them properly--always seems to change them in some ghastly way. But the digitals do fine in that respect. And thanks!