The weather in the UK changes from one hour to the next, which explains why we're obsessed with it. We can have winter snow in April, summer sun in November. An August holiday can turn into a re-enactment of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. This poem was written on a soggy afternoon when I had nothing better to do and thoroughly enjoyed doing it.
It's raining again.
All the people are running away
from the cold, nasty weather
but here I stay.
I wonder if ever
I'll grow tired of getting wet
or even yet
understand the fascination that clouds have for me
and understand why, perhaps when I'm old,
I'm getting to like being wet and cold?
Some thunderstorm day
would help take away
I suppose, all the crowds around me
and I suppose I can see
that it's easier to breathe when the streets are all clear,
when there's no one around and nobody near.
Jumping in puddles is really good fun,
though you get funny looks from everyone.
Listening to rainwater run down the drain,
the drumming of water on the window-pane.
What can I say but that it must be a sin,
when the rain starts to fall, to want to stay in?
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