Cloud gathering
on the way to summer,
stakes its claim, promising
fresh rain on tomorrow’s face.
A sky of change is
the best we can hope for.
The weather we deserve
arrives to warm our hearts
or cool our ardour.
Our destiny is to wait
for the wind to rise or fall light
for rain to come or not
while we dress for a climate
we may not control.
© BH, 2023
A quick-fire poem built on the remains of another. Just the last lines which, in the end, no longer fitted. These, the first four here, led to a reflection on weather. You might consider it an oblique climate-change piece. Then again you might not.
Who am I to judge?
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