Monday, 20 March 2017

Wet Day


Gossiping, wet, school-run mums,
with their thumping car door goodbyes,
tremble the drooping daffodils to tears.
Seagulls, airshow grade A,
tumble and stall mayday, mayday!
Peeling off, screaming along the wind,
searing comets that hail the day, go on!
Blow, blow and bend the shivering collars
that fail to mop the dripping impudence.
One foot splashing the other foot’s sock
on the way to the cold wet bus-stop pole.
Leaning into the queue of grunts and
snatched up-periscopes of bus-please-bus.
Frog-marched, stumble-tumbled and shoved,
the umbrellas ball along,
slithering between the hissing serpents
that spit at the have-to venture-outs.
Or suffocating in a steamy-windowed bus,
inconsolable in sodden thought,
aborted by an intellect incapable of transcendence
from the dreary reign of this damp dark blanket sky.   

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