I folded up the sheets of rain as I walked slowly down the country lane on one wet Sunday afternoon,
it was late in June or early July,can’t remember, don’t know why
my mind was flooded with the same old chatter
pitter,patter on the leaves and from the trees.
I sat under the dryness of the ancient oak and lit a smoke which drifted slowly in the summer breeze
and ate a Branston pickle and cheese soft roll,drank some lemonade.

Days like this made me who I am
a soaked up,washed out yesterday man
but I exist
despite the persistence of the rain,
I play the game and play it well
the proof being that I’m here to tell the tale and smoke a while,
while the heavens empty of the sky
don’t know why or for what length of time
days like this will be all mine.
Under the trees
out of the breeze
somebody please
stop the rain.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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