Small birds fall from their songs.
Sticks fly up invisible chimneys.
A strong wind unearths
the stringy and unlatched,
in the ruptured earth, makeshift mouths
gawp and gape.
Whoever has a quiet lamp,
takes shelter from the helter-skelter,
for the graveyard owls are loose,
their feathers are flared and fly
above the clouting forest
as it whips back and forth.
A north wind remodels
a cringing landscape.
We were warned,
the sky was read and foretold.
A pretty girl spoke ugly words
but we are distracted by cute.
Then of a sudden the sky erupted,
fell apart, while we were changing channels
to find a place of sunny smiles.
A thrown sky pushes and scatters.
Small birds fall from their songs.
Sticks fly up invisible chimneys.
A strong wind has come from the north,
it unearths the stringy and un-mulched.
Fusty heaps scud, makeshift mouths gawp.
Whoever has a quiet lamp,
Let them take shelter
from the helter-skelter,
for the graveyard owls are loose,
their feathers ruffled
they fly as loud
as the clouting forest.
March was the merriment of an English high summer as
April was being the wettest of the wet, as May could not
make its mind up how to be unique, so autumn in June
topped it by its rallying cry for rain as clouds scud by in the
sky's rush hour, then tree branches start several animated
arguments that lead them to clouting each other, over what
the rest of the year will bring to our perennial topic of
conversation