I am always amazed at how poems write themselves. I take a selection of seemingly random events and somehow they write themselves into a poem. Yes, I know, it is not that easy. There is the mind's selection of the experience/event, the ordering, the adaption into something greater and the hours of revision. But the end product usually surprises me.
For this poem I should stress I was not the driver.
he was complimented on the rainbow
his photograph deftly captured
the fine graduation of colours
which was due to the large amount of water
that had over such a short period of time
tumbled from out of the sky
he worked on the accompanying story
how the deluge had almost
overpowered the windscreen wipers
his focus always on the man in the vest and shorts
who attempted to out distance the rain
how his pale pink top darkened
as he panted to the supposed shelter
of a tree that became sparser
and less protective with each retelling
perhaps that was the point
Can anyone tell me how to alter the spacing on this new platform? It is, to use a technical term - pants.
Much rain fell last week and my thoughts are with those poor people flooded out. I think we are sleepwalking over the abyss as I write.
By the way the praise for my photographs of the rainbow was made up, as I think you can tell from the actual photographs.
Here's their other song. Ah, the wonder of psychedelia!
Until next time.