there is a softness
to this,
the third day
the sibilant rain drifts
down,
to blur the world's
definition,
and soften the crust
to a malleable mire.

i sit outside on,
the front verandah ,
in woolen jumper
and watch the horizon
dissapate and the waves
become tired and grey.
after three days,
there is, no fury,
left in them.

the steam, arising from
my cup,
mingles with humid,
misty bretheren
and the birds cry
mournful.

plate, the treefrog,
revels in the rain.
his bass profundo
decrying the need for
waterlove.

all else looks for shelter
in the soft indistinct frame
of three days of rain.

red moon rising
through flannel grey clouds
sea streaked with silver
pine trees black silhouettes

on the winow pane
brown moths paint
their lives away
and underlying it all
is the bass of a lonely treefrog
singing his heart's desire

,,,,,,,,,I hope not at a person
or a personality or a perception
of weakness of anyone....

but
,,,,,,,,at ironic whims of seasons
or a cat playing with a treefrog
smile at nature's randomness........

perhaps
,,,,,,,man's lack of understanding, at me,
thinking I know more than her,
my building my temple along the shore

That
,,,,,,,has flooded one hundred times before,
and I see The One, if God or Nature or chance,
smiling at my foolishness.

Where
,,,,,, they have all laughed been tickled before,
I am not the first to be assinine, the
corner of my lips turned up, grinning.

wind raucous in it's endevours tonight
circling the house in a macabre yet joyous song
and dance routine, the tree's applaud
and the small cat curls tighter in on itself

rain falls with intense passion
scrubbing the grime away
and the moon is lost in the clouds
most things tuck themselves up
and wish  for a sunny day

but the old green treefrog
is singing  lovesongs
and his rival too
bass profundo
at just past two
serenading the ladies
as the wind croons along

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              In the Season of the Perseids

Most people find beauty in everything:
An old Peterson’s pipe, crickets, Irish coins
Fire trucks, fountain pens, a favourite old book
Cattails growing in ditches along the road

Short strings of words that breathe and sigh as songs
Sunflowers fainting in the afternoon
A treefrog pulsing on the windowpane
Ladybugs drowsing on a tomato leaf

Even so, how hard it is to feel beauty
In late July’s wearying, withering heat