Friday, 14 August 2020

THE WATER CYCLE

I opened another of the stash of prompts I have from #iamallstories yesterday. It consisted of five words: And the rain fell up. 

My initial idea was to run the sentence on to the next line [that's enjambment in technical poetry talk] something along the lines of "on to the heads of the people..." Not very good, or I felt, in the spirit of the prompt. Having no clear idea I let the sentence roll around my mind for a time.

In the evening I wrote this:

the water cycle


on his drawing the rain fell up

he did not give a fuck

for the teacher’s laboured explanation

or his laborious chalked illustration

they were forced copy

he simply had a need to see

the world as a place of wonder

where water could soar skywards


It is based on a couple of memories of junior school, though to be honest I was far too dull to have wanted the rain to fall upwards.

This next poem was written on a bus as the drivers changed over and it is what it is.

oh the bus drives sense of relief

as he hands the keys over to the next driver

all those souls no longer his responsibility

two free days before him

the night is warm, heavy with promise

adventure beckons

Here's Procol Harum with A Salty Dog from 1970.


Until next time.

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