Britain is a battle ground for global weather.
Sometimes four seasons per hour!
An endless variety of cloud formations
But occasionally clear blue skies.

I love all those clouds.
Seeing faces, castles and who knows what
In all those shapes.
Gloriously colourful dawns and sunsets
That make life worth living.
Oh those reds, oranges, yellows, blacks and blues!
You can’t beat a sunset.

Hate the wind
And the snow.
But snow does look pretty.
Those crystalline flakes
Gently floating to the ground.

But then we have thunderstorms too!
Lashing lightning, striking from black sky.
Rumbling thunder exploding all around.

Such endless variety.
Rain and hail pounding down the chimney stack.
Relentless sun scorching crack-ridden earth.
Every extreme.
All manner of disturbance
And beauty.
An accompaniment to being Alive.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\6\2022

it’s overcast in Depression Valley.
an overhang of overweight clouds,
condensing within the soft folds of the psyche,
blocking the sun;
blocking the prospect of better or beyond.

abnormally swollen and pregnant —
they should burst and hail any moment
but today they are dumb, stagnant.

the resident automaton,
he pushes on

makes plans, with buds
feeds ducks, with nuts
drinks in Beethoven sonatas from the page —
the late ones deliciously well-aged.

but it’s just so mountainous.
he wears a joyless countenance
he bears the hopeless knowledge:
there’s no climbing out from Depression Valley.

a dear friend gently asks:
why not, automaton, why?

why, why, why:
is there a why to weather?
there is no cause, no invent.

in Depression Valley
there is a moratorium
on explanation,
on expression

the surrounding mountains are frozen, lush.
gently, with ne’er a rush,
they fold him into their ridges.

he gradually becomes the weather, joins
the chorus of mutes, eternally  
cast over Depression Valley.

the dark brooding cloud
that hangs some way off
is the distance between us
supercell of anxiety
will it rain or just
dissipate
is the thunder threatening
or just the rumblings
of a fresh summer storm
after a heatwave

we both look at the forecast
for tomorrow
and with heavy hearts
see what the long range
predictions are
there may be some
patches of sunshine
in moments when we forgive and forget
the odd warm day
here and there
but we both know
winter is coming
so is your mother to spoil Christmas again
the ice is at it’s thickest
and snow is on the horizon

She get’s nice weather  
when she walks through my mind
The clouds burn off
at her skin’s golden shine
Even clear skies
betray their own blue
And borrow warm yellows
that remind me of you
My pulse fails to match
with her whimsical pace
And her visage obscures
those footprints past traced
The streets are unnamed,
for the road she has parted
Carrying my thoughts
to places uncharted
It’s silly to think,
even crazier to say
You’re sometimes asleep
when your walk makes my day
Because each time I find myself
thinking of you
I get to enjoy
the nice weather too

fog on window panes blurs
the trees and faint sunlight
claws streaks down the
dilapidated couch where you
became a fixture of worship:
nights spent praying on knees
bruising for forgiveness. now
home is the potted plant
poking its head up towards
the sun; greeting him with
grace

Another day
The Winter blows
My life away
And Summer knows

It's only just
A short respite
I'm ground to dust
And put to flight