Cometh the Rain

Wherever Kira went, it rained. Not an unusual occurrence one might have claimed. In the context of her deluges, however, it was. No matter where Kira stood, either inside or out, the heaven’s opened and poured. They didn’t pour on her neighbours, nor her little chihuahua, just her.

This strange situation lasted for five years, then as suddenly as it had started, stopped. Like God had turned a tap off, the rain cloud’s that were a permanent feature of Kira’s life just disappeared. No more rain. No more wet beds, sofas, car interiors, gardens or streets.

“What a relief,” said Mrs Chambers from next door.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Alan, Kira’s boss.

“About time,” said their local weatherman relieved his predictions might stick.

Kira smiled at them all, replied that she’d miss it, then at long, long last put down her umbrella.


Sometimes, is harder than not

It is the promise, I think

That hope you feel deep down

Tingling like electricity

Just enough to tantalise without really hurting

A poking of awareness

And teasing of promise

Sometimes, they say

But you know it means not

That doesn’t mean you don’t hope

I always hope

Without ever getting my hopes too high

If you know what I’m saying

Or praying

Or preaching

Or both

Yes, sometimes, a multipurpose word

A hard word

A difficult word to fully understand

Different things to different people

A word of opposites

How else can I describe why you’d say it

So very, very often

And never once have it mean the same as me

Watching for a Reason

 Blood on the water, the colour of life, churning, flowing, seeking an outlet in which to pour. An incessant motion of so many tiny droplets of what was, is and will be, the cycle goes on.
 The rocks that bear witness to this dramatic passage are old, older than almost all else, but not that which constitutes Gaia’s existence. Time has no meaning to these cascading atoms of hydrogen and oxygen set free. They have seen the stars, travelled the cosmos and decided to make a home here with us.
 I feel honoured as they scurry away and wonder in which existence I shall see them again. Because I will, I know it. I have to, I think, or what else am I watching them for?

 Authors note: For those that might wonder. This waterfall is in the English Lake District near a small town called Ambleside. The view is looking back from a place called Sweden Bridge. (I’m sorry for reddening the image, as it’s usually crystal clear.)

Words & Pictures

A good friend once told me

Good poetry doesn’t require a picture

That the image is formed

Moulded, if you will,

Deep within the reader’s mind.

But how can the writer be sure?

How can they know if the reader,

The recipient of their words,

Really knows how the writer feels

And not misinterpret?

I would say that if it moves them,

Holds their attention,

Removes them from the trials of life

Even if but for a minute,

Should that not be enough?

And, if you write only for yourself

To cleanse your soul and free your spirit,

Does it even matter?

Words and pictures,

What a complicated combination,

Or not.

A Real Winter

This is for my good friend Desiree from I am trying to convince her winter is good. This is my first attempt.

There’s winter: 

slush on the streets;

supposed discounts in gaudy stores; 

children traipsing instead of laughing;

half finished snowmen stalking communal gardens;

cold hands in cold living rooms;

a Christmas tree plastered in the same dusty baubles,

so much the same, so little to relish.

Then there’s the real winter:

two feet of snow lying on a picture-postcard landscape;

a roaring fire to welcome rosy cheeks and happy smiles;

dressing like polar bears through choice, not pressure;

watching the robins pick berries from the holly trees;

that moment when peace descends in the valley and the first snowflakes trickle from the sky;

the promise of spring pushing through a blanket of white.

That’s my winter: 

I hope you liked it.

(Beautiful image courtesy Buble on