Weather Woman

I am a whirlwind, a whisk of storm
Bustling hustler, shucking pain
I, tornado, brave and warm
Quite immune to storm and strain
 
Problems scatter at my touch
Tossed aside on threads of steel
Fly to cloudy puffing, such
We pay no mind and bring to heel
 
Arms outstretched, ten fingertips
Sweep through the tactile charged air
Perched for flight the moment strips
All concern from simple care
 
I am the calm in the storm’s grey eye
Twister turns a tidy groove
And dancing miles across the sky
No one sees my fleet feet move

Ex-Albania

“I like your face.”
The stranger smiled
A friendly eye
In a hostile world
Not to be ignored
At the end of a week
Whose gentle slide
From bad to cess –
Pitiable
Until she could feel
Herself yawning
Over the abyss
Clutching at nothing
More than the last
Frayed threads of temper.
Clearing consciousness
Not minding this overture
To a careful discussion of
Meteorologic insignificance
And closing with
Best wishes for
The weekend’s rest,
“Thank you” she said
And meant it.

Winter’s War

The season has brought with her
Blustery blows
To trail leaves and scatter
Wherever she goes

The sky with her cloak
Is soon clouded and grey
As drips thunder downward
We run while we may

With twisting and turning
She tears limbs from trees
As forestry’s mistress
Will do as she’s pleased

Humanity’s dwelling
Is breeched by a beech
With windows that splinter
As roofs start to pitch

And foam less sweet-smelling
Is blown toward the beach
For nothing we know
Is held out of her reach

While Winter enjoys herself
Cosy and warm
We huddle in blankets
And hide from the storm

Our shelters may topple
As Nature holds sway
The Earth, baked and brittle
Returned to damp clay

She turns to her Captain
Proud Weather in pride
The borders of Britain
Have started to slide

With rivers that spread themselves
Stretch their banks wide
The water soon rises
Full moon and fell tide

This world we call small
Soon unmanned and unknown
What land we had conquered
Returned to her throne

Jerusalem Nativity

Blackened cloud, torrential rain
A flood of cheerful dripping splashed
To irrigate our thirsty plain
And water lawns where drought had lashed

To prickly desert once again
Verboten hosepipe, coiled and dry
Now stretch the root and drink it down
This manna falling from the sky

So all may see how Fortune vaults
And stamps her foot at those who’d planned
To sell this Earth, the very salt
That makes our verdant, pleasant land

Aspire, respire, perspire

Searching for beauty
In the crumbling pavements
The chickweed shoots
Bringing colour to each crack

Fishing for rainbows
In gutters pooled with oil
The water slick and dirty
As an inner-city fast-track

Squinting in sunlight
Huddled in a cheap coat
Thin layers for protection
Against the chill of springtime

Doze in back of buses
To dream up something better
Than another year of hardship
And a terminal decline

A graceful corner

The wind that wafts the cypress trees
That sway as dancers, to and fro
Within this place of make-believe
To tickle fancies, fast and slow

Brings little joy to residents
Nor tourists struck by wanderlust
Who hurry onward, business-bent
And grit their teeth against the dust

These quiet passages bear marks
That whisper other sides to life
Some ooze what passes after dark
The noisome remnants of our strife

And yet my mind is pausing here
A pleasant hour to pass. I wait
Enclosed by those with much to fear
Without this sanctuary gate

A kind parting

What summers I spend in the depths of your gaze
While the half hours tick past with a sigh
How cool is the breeze, yet how warm is this haze
As I watch my life, lonely, drift by

There I sit and I bask in the glow of your sun
In the chill of your evening mocks
And I love you with all of my heart every morn’
So I suffer your slights and your shocks

‘Tis in vain and I know it, your heart is aflame
With the gas-lit by some other spark
And I see nothing here for me but future pain
As I talk to myself in the dark

Try to speak me some sense to this dull wit of mine
I will do what I must to survive
For to keep up my status through your frosty clime
One can barely call ‘being alive’.

So my mind is made up – without heed of my heart
And the tears join my smile on the floor
I must put them both back, though it may not be smart
For I’ll not hurt my love,
My one precious love
This only true love?
As I slip out the door.

Chatting in miniature

It’s not so much small talk, as chatting in miniature.
People skim over the dangerous depths.
Shallowness gives us a far brighter outlook
Thus we pass the time without causing regrets.
So listen, my dears, not to what I am saying
But rather the tone of my voice as I speak
Exclaiming with interest at gloomy weather
For only the seventeenth time this week.

The low down dirty old Underground blues

Why do we at break of day
Brace ourselves to plow the fray?
Surely Britons ain’t forgot
That queueing is our national sport?

Daily, though, I feel the thrill
Of elbows meeting ribs until
Inside and out, I’m black and blue
And panting and perspiring too.

There must be a better way
For me to get to work today,
But tube is quicker, you retort
We like to keep our journeys short!

Yet overcrowding and delays
Especially on ‘weather’ days
Are making this commuter frown
Each time she travels into town.