Saturday, December 24, 2011

Rain Day, a Poem


Morning speaks of storms.
Not the red sky of warning,
or is that gray?

Ask a sailor.

I hear the distant thunder,
see the dark leading edge
of a front.

That's warning enough.

The dogs, cowed by the rumble,
take refuge in the closet,
the master walk-in.

It's their safe room.

Muffled rooftop drums --
a crescendo comes on
lightning cymbals.

They fade from me

to a tuneless murmur.
Once, I would hear words
on the wind.

Should I have answered?

Misted windows open
on misted skies, awash
in memories

of other rains.

Such days cross the horizon,
days of gray ennui
and misplaced time.

We'll find it tomorrow.

Stephen Brooke ©2011

A theme I may revisit too frequently but then rainy days come frequently too, don't they?

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