Poetry

The Rain

The rain, when it came
was like a judgement on the day
cold and harsh, reconfiguring
the views we’d all held.
Something like an out pouring of feeling,
washed away our cabins
in a wreck of habitation,
twirled and eddied
until we couldn’t think of anything
under the rush and pattering
of teardrops on the water.
Against the flood,
what use all our argument.
Against nature,
what use our puny anger.
Preoccupied and blinded
taken to the point where,
struggling to keep afloat,
we scrambled onto the
eroding island of our history
and unsteady,
found it capsizing under our feet.

John Charles William Morris
October 3 2013
revised 6th December 2013