On leaving the pub behind
I heard birds
And felt the London rain.
I often find
That birds, and fleeting words
Occupy my mind.
And the same rain fell
On ancient Rome.
But the birds they heard
Have gone with Rome.
Below is a slight rewrite of my poem “There is Still Snow:
There is still snow
And ice
In the churchyard nearby.
But below
There are no sighs
As vice
And virtue lie
Under December skies.
You can find the original version here https://kmorrispoet.com/2022/12/17/there-is-still-snow/
There is deep mud
In the park again.
As I wade through flood
I sigh
And cudgel my poor brain
To explain
Why we poets romanticise
This thing called rain!
Listening to rain
While reading poetry.
But why read poetry
When there is rain?
For there is poetry
In the rain.
—
Reading Clare
While listening to rain.
But why read Clare
For there
Is poetry in rain?
(The above is 2 versions of the same, maybe similar poem. The poem flows from me listening to the rain through my open bedroom window yesterday evening, while reading the poetry of John Clare).
I pass by graves
On a rain soaked day.
I know those below
Do not regret the wet.
I relish the fresh
Scents of this passing day
For after my death
I will know
No rain below.
The thunder spoke
And I awoke
To heavy rain.
I lay awake
Pondering on lakes
And climate change.
I took pleasure
In rainy weather
As a child
But this wild
Storm warns
Of change.
There is part
Of the park
Mysterious and dark
Where wind sings
Always to me.
And I
Am free.
I heard the wind blow
Through this wood I love.
When I go
Wind will blow.
And rain pour,
Though I am no more.
Yet it comforts me so.
Rain falls hard
In the churchyard.
But those below
Do not know.
On another day
Some other may,
Passing me by,
Think as I.
The wind sings
In the trees
As I,
Alone,
Pass by
Gravestone.
Or, on the busy thoroughfare,
Oft, he catches me unaware
With piles of fallen leaves
And great boughs brought low.
And then I know
That all must go.
K Morris - Poet 