paulhp poetry

it rains
little wet whips on the pane
percolations of thought
struggling to find their downward path
blurring the silent adagio dance
of blackthorn leaf and limb
blown by welkin’s bellows
around the warm grey comfort of home

it rains
gales fore-warned
with mellifluous distant words
absorbed by souls away from shore
fretful of boiling cauldrons to come
forties, cromarty, forth
wretched pernicious seas
holding fast their hope for harbour