I happened on a notebook of poems I’d written some twenty to twenty five years ago.
My style has changed somewhat in the intervening years, and most of them seem rather poor now. One or two of them I still like, though, and I think I’ll put them up here now and again.
This one is just called Rain.
I hurried down the road before the storm
– this must be six or seven years ago –
Still silhouettes for trees within the mist,
Around ahead behind me dull and grey.
The air was chilled
And in the hills the thunder growled,
A tiger prowled,
In the high forests of the Weald.
A hundred miles away my cottage refuge,
A forlorn hope now far beyond the deluge.
Sharp blue electric yellow split the air,
A crack like washing harried by the wind.
Then came swollen lazy drops of water,
Beachballs of rain exploding all around.
The pattering of rain on tiles
After the miles
I’d run through forests of the Weald.
The sound of distant gunfire possibly,
I closed my eyes to see where I might be.