Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. Mark Twain (1835-1910)
My feet settle, warmed by the hearth, there
as the air convulses with thunder. My ears
seize on weather, my heart clutches at rain.
I want to rush into roof arches and beams,
and hide in vesper processions and dreams.
But I’m sat in this too soft, slumped fitful chair,
watching a contagion of dark clouds appear.
Autumn is gone. The streets are swept clean
by unintelligible snarls of wind. And I sip tea.
Quietly. Still as the spoon on my saucer.
Found and Remixed Text:
The Mystery of Edwin Drood,
Charles Dickens and personal
recollections: November 1990,