Rain. Sleet. Frost. And after frost, rain
Slashing, tearing into the chopped-up water.
Zillions of tiny peaks, a mad meringue.
The canal is transformed, transfixed by the rain.
Ducks and geese loiter, forlorn
Heads sheltering under wings.
Canal boats are shuttered, enclosed against torrents.
Cyclists speed past, heads down, sodden and slick,
Their tyres squelching on the gravel,
Spewing water as they go.
Grass-soaked borders ooze green and brown,
Drooping low below the fence.
The new apartments drip, drip, drip,
Metal balconies slick and grey and dismal.
Outside the pub, empty tables,
Sun umbrellas ballooning with water,
Puddling and mouldy, sheltering no-one.
He stands alone in the doorway,
Tell-tale fag in his hand, waiting for her.
Will she come?
She never did like the rain.



About lorrainegradwell

Active in the disabled peoples' movement since the early 80's, stepping back a bit now but still speaking up and still looking for independence and an end to discrimination.
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