Nothing Seems to Fit

Just a poem about rain.

A refugee from chitter chatter,
Wine and cheese and washing sherry,
I headed West and further West
Driving potholed cracked-road miles
Settling in Dunquin to live out my days.
 
My days are solitary silent days.
I speak no Gaelic
I decline to speak English
There’s a rumour that I’m ‘on the run’
Others think I’m Latvian
And I’m inclined to let them.
 
When banks of storm clouds scud the Blaskets
The villagers cluster Kruger’s Bar,
Drink too much ‘black’ with Paddy chasers
Fiddle jigs and reels and sing soft songs.
 
I set my rattan on the strand and cup my ears
Straining for the keening from
The Sisters of Perpetual Precipitation
In their endless celebration.
 
I hear the deathless tales they share
Of lands beyond Antarctica
The warm Pacific lapping Samoa
Babies drowned in the sea off Ithaca.
 
Saturating a watercolour on Box Hill –
The painter’s response? Unrepeatable.
 
Hitching a ride on Larkin’s brolly –
Pitched off at the ‘Welcome’ mat of his library.
 
Drenching lovers’ ardour on Glastonbury Tor.
Soaking flag-wavers at royal parades
Raining off a Test Match and saving the Ashes.
 
Kissing the ground of a rubble slum
For a daisy to grow where no one goes.
Drenching a ragamuffin gutter splashing
His socks soaked through the holes
Of big brother’s once Meltonian-white plimsolls.
 
Tumbling Betjeman’s nose,
Trapped on his tongue,
Cascading his throat,
Discreetly expelled,
Via fumbled zipper,
An amber stream
Trickling the wall of
British Rail, Slough.
 
I set my rattan on the strand
Peering at splashing drops’
Headlong dives into see-saw sea
Cartwheeling wave-tops.
When inertia takes over
They swoon into the sea
To become the sea.
 
The clouds roll past, sun warms the waters.
Vapour rises to the rainbow dome –
A lightness of cloud that will darken heavy.
 
I hump my dripping wicker to my home beyond the village.
A passing neighbour, boozed up, greets me,
 
“Tá sé in aghaidh an lae mhór anois tá sé ag cur báistí stop.”
 
I have no Gaelic – I nod – a nod suffices.
 
My chair drips dry outside my door
I crane my ear for casual gossip
But all is quiet
 
I wonder what lies the raindrops spin about me
The minute my back is turned.

 

© coolhermit 2017
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critique and comments welcome.

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2 Comments on "Nothing Seems to Fit"

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Savvi
Member

Delightfully descriptive poem enjoyed from drip to dry. You are fast becoming one of my favourite poemisers 🙂

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