I was delayed today, by the rain and the poetry. And because I misread the timetable.
When I got to my class (proper writing class, with homework) we had to write on from the phrase ‘the rain began at midnight’. I remembered reading poems about rain and water. I wished I remembered the Simon Armitage ones. I wrote a drivel type stream of consciousness (poems-soft-what we wear-who we are-on the street where you live-singing in the rain-marshmallow of comfort-soggy-mushrooms-nourishment-defines and confines) while all around me people wrote real things, with themes, ideas and stories. They could read them out; mine was hardly legible.
When the rain stopped the rain began
And clattered beads of runny light against the panes
Decreased and crept inside the ghosts of sheep
And seeped inside the warmth of prostrate cows.
Then pelted bogs to syrupy peat
Made gravelly lanes glitter again
Beneath the melting greys of cloud and cloud
Pierced the puddles with a thousand stings
Tumbled silver through the hedges
And off the skinned shin-bones of trees;
Swept, soft again, like a haze of locusts
Across the ridge, then shifted shape in sudden wind
Drifting, finer than chimney smoke,
Like a passing pang of some great loss
Away from where more rain was coming in
From somewhere else beyond the world’s rim
Erasing gradually the misconception
That the world had ever not been rain
And rain would cease before the end of time.