Virgin white sheets.
His icey feet.
Two bodies meet.
“Why are you never warm?
I feel a storm coming.
I see dark clouds.
Do you hear the thunder’s voice angry and loud?
But no. though the sky is forlorn,
There will be no storm.
The weather needs to break.
This humidity I can not take.
I long for the cooling rain.
It will cleanse my fevered brain.
No, please,
your rough paws I do not need!”
Standing at my open living room window. A flash of lightening followed, soon afterwards by the angry thunder eclipsing, momentarily the incessant patter of the rain.
Branches russle, the wild wind like a passionate, half crazed lover wraps me in her wild embrace. I revel in her untamed grasp, long to go with her yet fear letting go.
Beyond the noisy elements birds sing and, imperceptibly, summer dwindles towards it’s close.
Open windows, rain falling softly on the garden below. Often the scent of the ground, rich with earth wafts upwards like a fine tobacco but, tonight nothing. Why so scentless this evening?
My arm encased in it’s dressing gown explores. The touch of rain hardly a whisper on my hand – barely raining? And yet the sound of the water continues, rain falling, nature saying something but what?
This morning my guide dog Trigger and I got soaked. Thor swung his mighty hammer and hailstones bounced off us. Nature, as is often her wont has exhibited her sense of humour, hailstones have been replaced by Apollo’s bright rays. Possessing only limited vision I don’t know whether a beautiful rainbow now brightens the sky tempting me to follow to it’s end and obtain the pot of gold which, lies buried in a wood where birds sing and the winter sun slants down through the branches casting shadows of light and shade on the forest floor. Shall I follow the rainbow, undertake the quest without end for rainbows have no beginning and no ending. Like our dreams they call us ever onwards to explore the mystery which is life.
Listening to the rain. Safe inside, no fear of the midnight knock on the door. I am at peace free to think my own thoughts. No pyres of burning books, no sound of jackboots coming over the hill. Only the noise of the comforting rain wild and free.
Sitting here waiting. The sound of distant traffic interspersed with fireworks. London waits but for what? A storm which will uproot mighty oaks which have stood unmolested for centuries surviving all that the elements have thrown at them. Public transport in chaos, not leaves but whole trees on the line. Confused commuters milling around in search of that most elusive of objects – a train! Wind buffeting pedestrians. Street signs sway precariously. An overturned rubbish bin rolls merrily down hill.
Or perhaps it will pass London by. Perhaps. London waits, holds it’s breath waiting for the storm.
Standing by the old house listening to the rain. The scents of the garden and the ancient wood beyond delight my senses. The smell of autumn fills the air. The woodland floor strewn with acorns. My grandfather and I walking together, the feel of acorns clutched in a child’s hand. Opening the fruit the kernel exposed to little exploring fingers. Leaves crunching, grandfather close and near.
My aunt standing close, we two sheltering from the rain. Grandfather departed many moons past. My aunt followed several years ago. They are part of something now beyond my comprehension, a small speck in nature’s unfathomable plan.
Great metal birds shriek overhead drowning out the singing of their feathered cousins. Oh how times change. In centuries past the hall dominated the village of Speke. Villagers and hall joined by threads tying one to the other. The domestics toiling to keep the house in good order, it’s owners and their guests maintained in comfort and well fed. Like a well regulated clock the hall ran smoothly, estate workers and domestics knew their place, all was right with the world. Or was it? Where the masters and mistresses of yesteryear tyrants exploiting the local poor? The truth lies no doubt somewhere in the middle. At best the domestics of the past had a sense of pride in maintaining the local squire while he (or she) in turn felt a sense of obligation to their employees. At worst domestic service entailed getting up at an ungodly hour to sweep the grate and light a fresh fire so that the hall would be warm for when the family arose later in the day.
http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/speke-hall/
Was it a semi-feudal paradise with kindly m
Lethargy holds sway. People mop their brows, move reluctantly onwards trying in vain to escape the deadening blanket of heat. Like a giant hand held too close to the face the heat stops our breath, we gasp longing for the blessed rain.
The over heated brain yearns for quiet, a shady nook in which to find relief from the myriad thoughts and fears that pervade it, but the rain when it comes is warm and heavy providing little restbite from the giant’s all encompassing hand.
Me reading my poem entitled ‘Rain’. This poem was inspired by me standing by the window you can see in the video, listening to the rain. It is a lovely, sunny Wednesday evening, but the same window, and the same garden, on which the rain fell several weeks ago!
I have just been sitting on my sofa listening to the rain falling. It is a soothing sound and provides a welcome change from the noise of the television which signified the presence of my mum and her partner. It goes without saying that it was wonderful to have my mum stay with me for a week. We ate out often and had a wonderful time including a visit to an historic palace. However the sound of the television and the presence of my mum and her partner made it difficult for me to concentrate on my writing. I require solitude and the absence of external distractions such as music while writing and this has been largely lacking for the past week. My two bed room flat is spacious but it is amazing how sound travels. The answer is obvious. I need to win the lottery, buy a large house in the country and retire to my study in the west wing when guests are present and I need to write. I don’t play the lottery so this may be a little difficult so, dear readers please send donations, however large to K Morris, PO box 252, the Bahamas! I can hear pens scratching already as you all rush to right out cheques for significant sums. I’m off now to check out mantions in England’s green and pleasant land. Kevin
K Morris - Poet 