Tag Archives: poems about the weather

On Leaving the Pub Behind

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.

There is Still Snow (Revised Poem)

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

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!


Poetry in 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).

After Death

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

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

There is part
Of the park
Mysterious and dark
Where wind sings
Always to me.
And I
Am free.

Wind and Rain

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.

The Rain Falls Hard

Rain falls hard
In the churchyard.
But those below
Do not know.

On another day
Some other may,
Passing me by,
Think as I.

Conscious of the Wind

The wind sings
In the trees
As I,
Pass by

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.