The rain it is a-falling hard
It’s coming down in torrents
I’ve never seen such heavy rain
It fills me with abhorrence

If out you step you will get wet
The land is one great puddle
All the roads have disappeared
The cars are all a-muddle

Mums and dads are driven mad
The kids aren’t out a-playin’
It’s a miserable flippin’ summer
When there’s nowt to do but stay in

I ain’t worn shorts but for an hour
I’m in slippers more than sandals
By the time it gets to half past eight
We’re lighting flippin’ candles!

We haven’t seen the sun in weeks
Just dark, foreboding skies
Whoever said the globe is warming
Was telling flippin’ lies!

With autumns ever shortening diurnal light
You pull the dark evenings in
Like a cloak around your shoulders.
Instinctively your spirited open summer strides

Slip into their winter shuffle,
Inviting the scuffle through fallen leaves
And solemn reflection in every puddle.

Once, long summer days brought inspiration.
Now, with morning, just comes condensation
And a crystallised frosting of the cars and ground.
Through the sky’s grey filter the land’s colours are dulled.

These days are shadowless,
With no memories worth mulling over
Other than when the days were brighter.

Amidst aimless wander my head is full of nothing
But the birdsong of finches in their morning roosts,
Shrouded by berry-laden bushes; musical bushes,

With tiny red beaded bells ringing, softly shaken by dawn’s breath.
My dog runs on before me; the birds take flight,
Silencing the bells’ shrill.

Entering the field; ghost footsteps have left their mark
In the silver dew, bending the grass wearily.
Far across the field another man walks with his dog.

An echo alerts me; there is a connection.  In that instant
A recognition of a moment yet to pass.
Although separated by some hundreds of metres

It is as if I were stood by his side.
His face is indiscernible and I know nothing of him
But that we’ll meet.

He walks toward the middle of the same field,
Then bears left to where the trees break,
Throwing their arms open in wide embrace

To draw you into the heart of the wood.
Sensing the unavoidable encounter
And not wanting it to occur,

I change my route, drift under the oak,
Through the gap in the undergrowth,
Through to the adjacent field.

We skirt the edge, my dog gamboling freely,
Sniffing out invisible visitors from the past
And anything edible.  Our progress meanders,

Idles and pauses, as must, I suspect, our now unseen companions’.
Seemingly still connected, though, we move on
To the inevitable confluence of our paths,

So bound in time and space as the meeting of two rivers,
The calm of morning solitude disturbed by the white waters
Of the unwanted salutation we exchange:

*“Good morning.”

How do you dislike me?  Let me count the ways.
At least half of what I do and half of what I say
Seems to irritate and frustrate you.  
My deeds mistrusted and misunderstood
As something other than selfless good.
Your suspicion steals a narrow view
Of how I would prefer to spend my time.
So the sentence precedes the crime
And love is shackled in its gaol,
A prisoner with no parole,
Once found guilty, condemned for all,
And nothing can now avail.
Imagined crimes will never fade
And penance be ne’er truly paid.

One muggy late September afternoon, a heavy grey cloud blanketing the sky, smothering the sunlight, I was not really heading anywhere with purpose; just walking along the paths amongst the high grass and trees that border the land between the houses and the valley fields.

It started to rain.  Thick, heavy drops of rain, that fell directly down as if they’d been dropped through a giant metal sieve in the sky. I felt each rain drop hit me with determined force, dark spots appearing across my faded green t-shirt. I took shelter beneath an oak tree at the side of the path and listened to the sound of the rain as it pattered off the leafy canopy above and around me.  Everything was otherwise still and silent.  

The air was warm and filled with the sweet earthy scent of the dampening ground.  The grass was bright lime green in the sun where shafts of sunlight speared the clouds. The leaves that sheltered me shone in low diffused light that filtered through the clouds and I admired the bounty of acorns that beaded the branches of the tree around me.  I imagined busy grey squirrels scampering along the boughs, harvesting the bounty in their tiny claws, gathering their store for the long cold winter to come.

Unexpectedly, I felt secure; comforted that I was still able to harvest simple pleasures and peace, just by sheltering from rain beneath a tree. Nature sometimes has a certainty that is re-assuring to a troubled mind.  

My thoughts turned to the coming autumn, with its landscape richly painted in burnished copper and bronze; the hedgerows burdened with the many wild fruits and berries that would nourish the wildlife through the harsh winter months to come.

Shutters hang defeated, at the mercy of the wind.
Rain soaks through the swollen beams,
Dark emptiness mirrored in blackened puddles,
Rats slump across the slimy floor,
Skeletal weeds cling and crawl along the walls.
Through splintered slats the tempest spirits howl,
Tattered cobwebs brace the corners;
A final winding sheet; the end of pain and struggle.

There is no echo
For there is no voice,
Pray the battering storm,
But in the darkest shadows,
Where no-one looks,
Stares a frightened fearful soul.