Pregnant she waits,vibrates,
a mud grey dull day
opening the way for her droplets of rain.
I do not complain
she’s had babies before and wore the same dress,designed to depress and to send under umbrellas,unwise youngish fellows in shorts,who are caught out,sought out by the gushing and rushing and the dash of the splashing.

How rash
how unwise
they should have looked at the skies before venturing forth
because of course
I always do.

copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved
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