English Rain

Here, it is not The Tropics

where wide brimmed sunhats

double up for a performance of rain,

leaning smooth ledges of rock

for water to fall; tumble and stream - not in sheets,

droplets, nor cats and dogs:

uncountable reams vanish relentlessly wet

into a complete absence of baked goods,

into a steam-fresh sauna of rainbow and sweat.

Here, we do not surrender, parched,

cracked skin, desperate for soothing.

Here we do not exhale in awe.

We are the hunched resistance,

each sense locked on drizzle’s drivel,

the wrong stoic shoes, shuffling the puddles,

heading somewhere, shivering.

Here, we do not surrender, arms open wide,

bathing in gratitude, sighing – we grumble,

soak up each driving droplet,

count each miserly strike against uncovered skin,

mumble silently, penning the ledger of losses and wins.

Here, we are the abacus of recrimination. The reckoning,
head bent on recording highs and lows in the density of mist.

Steadfastly onward, when grey could be as soft as a shawl,

soft as blaming a tarmac sky for missing bows of rain.

Here, we do not surrender. We may unpeel layers later,

hang them all on the back of a tall chair in a noisy room

and order from the bar; or, on the back of a bathroom door,

when water pouring a steam-fresh sauna of rainbows

wrinkles the skin, and warms the bones with its breath.