Wind and Rain

Written on a typically dreary Easter Bank Holiday in Britain. I reminisce about the places where i would rather have been; the hauntingly austere, yet compellingly beautiful, lanes of North Cornwall.

It has been raining for days on end;

Wind gusts down the chimney;

Rain patters against the glass.

There are sliding patterns on the French windows,

Distorting the view into the garden.

There are puddles on the patio,

Where a once empty bucket has been filled.

The rotary clothes line has been unemployed for weeks;

Water drips from the garden furniture;

Wooden fences are dark and slimy.

I remember days like these

In the ‘Land of my Heart’s Desire’.

There I would trudge along stone-hedged lanes,

Partly on road, partly on slurry;

The blustery air scented with silage,

And a hint of the nearby ocean.

Beneath the charcoal skies,

With their barely defined clouds,

Were crumbling barns of rustic slate;

Tanglements of trees crippled by gales;

And, in the distance, a granite church tower.

Wind and rain,

Rain and wind.

The sounds of water running and dripping;

The voices of farm animals far away.

Austerity;

Loneliness;

Mystery;

A distinctly supernatural quality;

Indescribably lovely, in its way.