Clouds, a grey dull today
That’s better than yesterday
Or twas it the day, before,
Or even the day before, the day before
The clouds a ***** shade of coal
Threatening Thor’s thunder,
Urging the dogs to bark
The birds to scuttle for hedges
Maybe tomorrow the clouds
Will be less intent
On thunderous outbursts
Instead scud lightly across the brightest
Of blue, like all good clouds should
To please the eye, behind the shades
I’ve told myself it can’t rain forever
Despite Saint Swithern’s curses
That the fifty shades of grey felt pens
Will run out of rainy ink tomorrow

A couple holding hands, huddled together
A rusty crane arm reaching the stars
Smell of salt air mixed with seaweed
Shades of red, and orange mingle
With the glistening water as the sun sets
Wooden bench perched on a bank,
Tiny plaque memory of two souls
Spending moments here of evenings past
Overlooking fishing boats tethered,
An ancient weathered harbor wall.
Lazy, full seagulls, flap heavily away
Playful laughter floats, on the air
As children dance too and from
Waves lapping the pebbled beach

Motionless trees sinister
In their silence
Images swirl of twisting pirates
Shapes and shadows stoop
Contorted, turn and beckon
A voice whispers softly
Of things that only darkness knows
Shivering, eyes deceived

Sun lit green trees highlighted
By a background of black
Clouds tearing apart
Drops crash earth bound
Explode on leaves
Turning dust to mud
Trickles into streams
Rivers into torrents
Pealing the skies
With cracked bells
Gutters overflow
Appearing puddles
Become ponds
Ponds burst banks
Forlorn plants droop

An evening in the garden
Sun slowly dipping below rooftops,
Shedding an orange glow,
Caught by the ice
In the glass on a rustic table
A background chorus of warbles
Marking out dusk territory
A faint smell of lavender
Mixed with mown grass
Brings a summer day to a close

All the remarks of wet winter weather
Plaguing our dull, dreary lives forgotten
Replaced by bare sleeves, smiles
And a biblical invasion of midgies

I sit in this place, surrounded
By a storm tossed sea
Of torn, crumpled A 4
An ocean of words,
Floating cross the floor
All the words I meant to say
Lost to a tide of despair

Maybe tomorrow,
When a new tide rolls in
I’ll ride the poetic crest of a wave.

Brown, to orange,
Shades of autumn
As sun weakens
The year wanes
Eerie mists swirl
Around dying hedges
Clouds skirting
A harvest moon
Dew edges to frost
Mornings chilled
Damp smell of earth
Moist on still air