November Rain

Walking to the car, the rain,
attacking with the density of schoolboy machine-gun fire
is cold.
Marshalled by a cunning wind
shooting wet bullets in every direction:
inside my collar,
through my trousers,
and, using the very effective tactic of the deep puddle,
over the top of my shoes
overwhelming my socks
and utterly subjugating my feet,
I get cold,
so I run to the car.

The windscreen wipers
knock regularly
like a cat outside thats lost its voice.

Travelling slowly
on the left
in the careful traffic wary of slipping,
I hit regular puddles
splashing in time
to the boredom of poor music.
I'm unable to avoid this nervous water
and any unfortunate pedestrians walking by,
creating tsunamis
so broad and high
that any small life sheltering above the curb
must long ago have cursed its foolish instinct
or love cold water
and to be soaked in mud
released by washed away grass.

Wet, yellow-lit fire
launched like saturation artillery
battling on the pavement
bombarding the wall's foundation
in an aggressive assault
bursting regularly, repeatedly, insanely,
glowing in the serene yellow
of the street-lamp overhead.
Perhaps small armies
of ants
gaze forlornly from the ramparts of the wall
at folly throwing tantrums below
with some self-satisfaction
knowing that their castle is secure
until
finally
chaos, erosion
steps in like a parent
insisting the other brother
must have his way
once.

Travelling at speed
the rain becomes persistent
like a quarry of Hollywood prisoners
at work
a thousand million women
in high pitched shoes
shopping in a stone square.

The cold rain of winter
makes me jealous,
or perhaps just more jealous,
of sun addicts
whose spend these six months
in Australia
dozing on the beach,
laid out in poses,
forgetting what winter is
except, perhaps,
as something frightening in childhood,
unreal passages in novels,
imaginative photographs on Christmas cards.

Guinness
Poetry Index
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