ODE TO A STORM
The crystal drops fall
From the heavens above
On to the silk-edged roofs
And the couples in love.
Into the surge of the gutter
And the turbid pipe-mouths
On the convexed ‘brellas
And flock o’ primitive shrouds
Archways and doorways
Bus shelters and canopies
Are all engaged in a task of mercies.
People hurry, guardians appalled
Their figments discouraged
The aged plough on, the pompous
Step about like frogs undernourished
The leaves and the plants collect
Water in their arms so plentiful
When the rain ceases
The sky no longer dull.
The procured liquid extends
Welcome to the passing bee
Therefore the gay life
Extends it’s help to ecology.
The domestics in the field
Bow down to the rain
Their legs folded beneath, upon
The vacant grass.
The bird of the wing
Has no desire to sing
For his plumage is drowned
His appearance quite profound.
The storm will soon pass
Leaving prominent scars
But releasing us of this gloom.
Gray Buckley - Published Hobo issue 3 1974
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