There’s something about writing poetry in the rain,
Somehow the words in the water help me to refrain,
From writing sad stories in the sunshine.
Maybe it’s hard to sit sadly on a sunny day,
Maybe the warmth diminishes the creative play,
And words get stuck in my sunburned jawline.
So should we associate sadness with the raindrops,
Like misery and pain go away when the rain stops,
Sadness finds that with rain it can align.
Inside, warm, sitting alongside the fire and inspired
Or maybe it’s just that the coffee has me so wired
Or rain evokes the desire to malign.
Raining has that quality that makes one seek relief,
Seated on the high stool, scarfed, with pen to quote belief,
And I with cosy fire primed to opine.
The rain washes a sea of umbrellas in showers,
Extended as the sun calls out to play, the flowers,
And they sit there raised toward the skyline.
And too the cobblestones in Melbourne lanes where a sea,
A fleet of rushing people sail past in front of me
While I reach for my pen and my red wine
And the women, sleek in their stylish winter fashion
Evoke an evening of sheep-skin rugs, fire side passion
And their nakedness and sweating waistline.
So the rain it raineth, the rain with cold cometh more,
While poets sit and pour our souls out on the wet floor,
And the words on the page are a lifeline.
Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved