Terry Trainor | + Follow Poet |
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Hail, Frozen Rain

Hail, frozen rain blew down from the west ,a biting shattering wind, changes puddles to ice,
Head down keeping the hail from stinging my face, it’s blown sideways so cold feeling sick,
Overcoat soaked right through to my skin, my teeth chatter loudly, shivering uncontrollably,
Down on my luck, no job no home, nobody, absolutely nothing just the clothes on my back.

So cold and bitter there is nowhere to go just walk about to try to generate some body heat,
Must have shelter some warmth, a peel of thunder rumbles far in the distance, what a day?
Through the falling hail, ahead there are some village shops, maybe a big canopy is down?
Maybe a doorway to stand in, or an alley, it is so cold and wet, would a shopkeeper mind?

Holes in my only pair of shoes, squelching wet bubbles, my feet frozen like never before,
Wind from lorries cars passing splashing, it's wet salt used to stop the road from freezing,
Thundering clouds get nearer the wind blows harder it looks like the worst has yet to come,
An old man, too old, scared to be wandering and sleeping rough, how to get out of this mess?

At the village now leaning against a shop’s side walls not enough shelter still facing the wind,
Agony, pain every movement the wet clothing touches my skin making everything so colder,
How do people like me survive this cold weather, but they do there are many armies of the road?
Just to be sitting by a roaring log fire clothes getting dry and having something, anything to eat.

As the thunder cracked overhead the hail turned to sleet and the sleet turned into hard frozen snow,
The wind got stronger, a real gale, again it pushed my soaking wet clothes harder against my body,
In better days things took for granted, a lovely house, that had a real value, never known before,
What drove me to drink, if there was a choice today a warm fire or a bottle, it would be a bottle?

Standing by the shop wall the wind got stronger, swirling in wind traps, coming from everywhere,
How to get through this storm, the cold, the wet have beaten me, just cannot take much more,
The man from the butcher shop walks over and tells me, rudely, to go away, but where is there to go?
Walking to a nearby park sitting on a seat, no shelter my eyes closed, warm tears ran down my face.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012

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