It took its time getting here
and the fear was that it would be mid year
and still we’d have no sun – just rain –
with only grey clouds for weeks.
Just grey clouds that came again
and again – with rain. A saturation
of precipitation. A situation of steady
frustration.
But now the sun has decided to show
itself to try to dry the sodden soil.
The weeds survived and thrived, of course.
Persistent Precipitation
And still it came – the rain!
More and more to saturate the satiated soil
Of a dishevelled garden, mired in mud.
The water would drain away if it could,
But now lies in ponds
Among the fronds
And flooded roots
Where pale green shoots
Of bulbs appear,
Fooled in thinking Spring is near,
And seem to drown,
As more incessant rain comes down.
I look through the soaking window pain
And think of summer months again,
When in the swelter of an August day,
Perversely we all start to pray
For rain!
© Wally Smith 2024
This weekend I enjoyed my first Horkey, which is a name denoting the celebrations that end the harvest festivals, and is particularly attributed to East Anglia. It consists of a festival of folk music, poetry, songs and stories. As a member of the Suffolk Poetry Society, I was invited to read a poem about Autumn or something related to that time of year. I was intrigued by the sight of so many spiders’ webs decorating shrubs, trees, lamps and gateposts in the dew-laden air at this time of year and wrote the following:
Web Designer
Fragility shudders in morning mist,
Where a dew-draped web hangs
On silken threads.
How can such a trap seem so exquisite?
Intricacy of design with a less benign intention.
An invention of nature.
The architect of this lace-like span
Waits and waits, as dew dissolves
And sweet sunlight lures
The unsuspecting prey.
The very late and very warm weather has now gone and Autumn has established itself with cooler days and much wetter weather.
The mahonia bush in the garden very much stands out in these greyer days.
Mahonia (An acrostic )
Mistress of autumn foliage,
A collage of yellow spikes and green,
Holding forth in rain-soaked raiment:
Oh, what a brilliant scene!
Nature’s bold expression,
In this season’s time of dying,
A confirmation of succession.
What breeze there is has a languid feel
and merely ushers hot air amongst
the shrubs and bushes. I’ve no doubt
a drought will follow soon.
Unauthorised use of hosepipes
will be deemed treasonable,
despite the unseasonable weather.
Evaporation
Perspiration
Indignation
Resignation
Precipitation (please!)
The season shifts and the mists
Move light in the morning air,
Where harvest spiders weave
And leave webs drip-filled with dew.
The day grows into a belated heat
That summer never saw.
Ripening fruits are in awe
Of the swelling warmth.
Records record it’s the hottest,
Where once was the wettest there’d been.
Yet I still fret, and am willing to bet
My tomatoes will all remain green.
Frost has accosted the ground
and I have found nothing free of the freeze.
Several days now with sunlight
only highlighting the white
without significant warmth.
Bitter winds bite at fingers and face
and any trace of a mild respite is quite
remote.
Grass just grows longer and the weeds
seem stronger, despite the cold
and the hard solid earth.
How bulbs have the strength to break the
surface only Nature knows.
The burst of first shoots shows a bold
outlook that I can only envy.
Dreadful day –
Unrelenting rain –
Leaves are blocking every drain.
Water running down the road –
gutters into overload,
and yet in summer everyone knows
we won’t be able to use a hose,
since reservoirs will be too low.
So, where did all this water flow?
Evaporated in the air?
Heated by this climate change?
Industry don’t seem to care,
which isn’t really very strange.
Shareholders need to make a profit.
Is there any way to stop it?
In this way I am a prophet,
but sadly one of impending doom.
We’re done for, unless we act real soon!
Dull.
And a full thirty one days of drear.
There must be ways to clear
the post-holiday New Year blues.
And the news provides no respite,
despite the increase in daylight
hours. Incessant showers
saturate the satiated ground,
where the grass could pass for Pampas.
Despite the chastening chills
of winter, soon daffodils
will mark the start of Spring
and bring a cheer to everything.
An evening walk on a favoured Suffolk beach a few days ago recalled a poem I had written a while back.
Where the North Sea claws at soft cliff faces,
seeping into ancient salted marshes,
the pebbled, shingled shoreline
challenges each wave of attack.
My boots sink into slopes of quarried stones,
and always there is one to catch my eye.
Salt-scrubbed and rounded smooth,
lined with subtle streaks of light.
I feel its contours, judge its weight,
and walk towards the water’s edge
to skim it to a greater glory.
My record is eleven skips – in 1968.
This grey, lustrous mini-discus fits my hand.
I throw, but I am half a century too late.
Five skips are all I count before I see it sink,
to return to rubbing shoulders
with those who met a self-same fate.
The tide is turning,
lapping foam is blown about my boots,
and I scramble on to higher ground.
My wind-blown walk continues down the coast,
through sandy scrub and sea kale,
beside the timeless swathes of reeds,
where woodlarks, swans and warblers
tolerate my brief intrusion.
© Wally Smith 2022
Wally Smith 