Shropshire rain

Coming from the west in
grey black curtains, the colour of slate
it drums on the roof
with the sing-song cadences of Wales.

But this is Shropshire rain
running thinly down the
brown stemmed bracken,
dropping from the dripping sheep
to the short shorn grass and the
deep dark soil of centuries.

This is the rain of misted hills,
wraiths wreathing scarp and vale;
pale woods dissolve and crystallise again
and I tramp damp and drizzle drenched
across the misty heights...songs bubbling unexpectedly
like shafts of light.

(c) A Mc N

The most miserable weather often evokes unexpected emotions. Its very rawness gives us the sensory shake-up that makes us more alive.