The sky is the colour of old sheets,
from time to time a gun-metal cloud lours
over the hills.
Rain comes and goes,
angry in painful darts
or listless in misty layers.
Either way we are wet to the marrow.
Tiny blue patches promise much,
but deliver little save disappointment
until they go.
Wind blows and sighs,
raging in fitful gusts
or constant in chilling breezes.
Either way we are cold to the breastbone.
Boots splash through opaque puddles,
heads down we admire the ripples
that we make.
Light comes and shines;
thrilling , so unexpected,
just briefly making colours.
Either way we’ll cheer the sun tomorrow.