She reigns a muddy kingdom
of frogs and slugs and snails,
where rainbows dance in sunbeams
and raindrops dance in pails.
She rides a silver rainhorse
with bells on either rein,
she rides him to the storm clouds
and then rides him back again –
she reigns a muddy kingdom
where puddles catch the skies,
her smile is bright as lightning
and there’s thunder in her eyes.
Rainy days over at dVerse...rainy but upbeat…!
The rain comes down in rods,
In sheets, in cats and dogs,
We sit and watch the day
Dissolve, get washed away.
Like maidens in a tower
Beseiged by men of power
Dark arrows from the sky
Keep us at home, and dry
And all the dripping leaves
The darkly clouded trees,
The raindrops on the glass,
The mud be-spattered grass
Are things that give rain joy,
She treats them as a toy –
She’d play with us, no doubt,
If we went running out
And jumped and danced in mud
And laughed at the small flood
That tumbles down the lane
And sings a song of rain.
Te TUM te TUM te TUM. A trimeter for Frank, who is hosting MTB at dVerse. For my American readers – this is what happens in England in the summer. Ah, well, we make the most of it. In fact, when I went to tag this, “summer rain” was already a tag, so it’s obviously a common theme for me!
I saw them as I hurried through my day –
Too much in love to notice any rain –
Framed in the springtime blossoms, pink and white
I saw her some time later, veiled in white,
Friends gathered round to share their wedding day
Laughing together, standing in the rain
I sometimes find I think of them, that day,
Sweet-scented jasmine crowning them in white:
I hope that they’re still laughing in the rain.
On days that rain, white jasmine gives most scent.
This is for Jane Dougherty’s poetry challenge. It’s a tritana, with repeating end words in a pattern: 123, 312, 132, and then a final line with all the end words in order. Another lovely picture from Jane, too: Cornoyer’s Early Spring in Central Park.
We weren’t the only people who left their homes. I just think Mum felt it even more than most. The Mill wasn’t just a home to her, it was a dream. Mum and Dad had left Bristol when the electricity stopped working, moved into a (wind powered) mill and planned to bring us up there.
The problem was the rain. Seven years on, and there was nothing to grind – no crops – the topsoil all washed away, and flooding getting worse every year. Soon people started leaving, moving north – and then that trickle of people became a flood itself.
Then the Government announced over the radio that it was going to stop doing supply drops. There were too few of us. That was the end. We packed what we could carry and started to walk out.
I think we were all crying a bit, and then Mum suddenly started shouting at Dad, as if it was his fault. He just looked shocked. He’d been a Recycler all his life. All this warming and weather stuff – it just wasn’t his fault.
And then Mum turned and started walking back to the Mill.
So that’s my last memory of her, and the Mill. Mum standing there, waist deep in water, now; tears rolling down her face, holding her useless umbrella. Watching us leave.
Jane Dougherty offers this painting by Henri Rousseau, and the word “abandon”.
The image is by Franz Marc, and it’s called In the Rain. Jane Dougherty is allowing us any form we like this week, and she’s given us some optional words: rain, red, relentless, river, regrets. I’ve done some minute poems. A bit of dialogue, or perhaps trialogue?
She Says
This rain falls so relentlessly
It lessens me
The world turns grey
I turn away
He says
I wonder what I should have said,
Or done, instead,
To make her smile
And stay a while?
The dog says
Humans do make life a muddle
Jump a puddle!
Rain can be fun –
Who needs the sun?
It rains all day, on and off, gentle pattering against the window, not loud enough to drown our conversation, but strong enough to make us pause and look outwards, at the garden dissolving like a painting under water, colours blending and merging. At first the thirsty ground drinks it up, then eventually sickens of it, turns away, lets the water run down the path and out to the lane. Each rose holds a million tiny mirrors, the cranesbill holds its face up to be washed clean. Each blade of grass is jeweled with crystals, each leaf is gem studded. I hold a fortune in my hand, then let it fall. We stand in silence, all words lost, showered away.
Each drop a secret
Summer rain whispers into
The flower’s cool heart
A Haibun – it’s Monday atDVerse and we are asked to write a haibun on the subject of rain. We’ve had quite a lot of that this last week or so – I consider myself an expert! – in rain, if not haibuns!
