It's Pishing Doon Poem by Mervyn Graham

It's Pishing Doon

The sky, a dreary quilt of gray,
Unleashes torrents from its seams,
A dreich and weary Scottish day,
Where puddles birth like sudden dreams.

The pitter-patter on the pane,
A drumming of sorrow's tune,
As gutters choke with autumn's bane,
And rivers swell beneath the moon.

It's pishing doon, the laddies cry,
As boots splash through the murky streets,
Their laughter mingles with the sky,
Defying nature's cold retreats.

Their heads are bowed with heavy grace,
Their coats hue now dark and soaked,
While sheep seek shelter in their place,
And hills are by the misty cloaked.

In cozy nooks by firesides warm,
Old tales revive with whiskey's cheer,
While outside, rages nature's storm,
The wild and wet both far and near.

Yet in this downpour, beauty hides,
In every drop, a world can re-new,
As life through nature's fury rides,
And skies, once gray, will turn to blue.

So let it rain, and let us dance,
Beneath this ever-weeping moon,
For even in the storm's expanse,
There's joy to find— when it's pishing doon.

Mervyn Graham (May 2024)