February Rain

To be the mud, the bog, the mire; To soak the bones in February – Eons from the autumn shower– Even from a summer berry! Sparrows chirp a desperate call, Darting questions at the cows – Oblivious to the dousing squall, they Churn the sludge with pastern ploughs. The crying air was lost in rhythm: Drums incessant in the drops; Not a chance for rainbow prism – Even if the hammering stops! Metallic chills entrap machines – Tractors hushed within the shed. Inside the house, a full cuisine To bless with mead – and little said! But out across the tiring field, A sodden fox is hunting down His prey of sorts – but nil of yield; Perhaps he’ll starve; perhaps he’ll drown. Still the clouds are hammering, Hammering home their dreary aim – A chatterbox in constant yammering, Drenching all to make a claim. Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010 rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain