The steadily falling cold August rains
Continue to pour upon Cheshires lanes;
Over flattening fields of soddened wheat,
Soaking the grass, splashing the feet.
Stands the Combine in the shed;
The unripened apples hanging rosy red.
Stands the caped heron all alone -
His glinting eye as cold as stone.
And in amongst the many puddles
We step around like our troubles:
So lurch ahead with our retreat
Like drunken fools in the street.
And through this months darkly frowns
The cleansing downpours wash the towns;
Scrubs the spire from ingrained time -
Absolves the guilt from the crime!
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014
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