Rain Dances. Poem by David Wood

Sticky wet mud lined the path,
Sometimes thick as treacle sticking
To boots sliding in the downpour,
Puddles inviting you to enter their

Dark domain. Spring here is more
Wet than dry. Unhappy clouds wait
To throw their heavy load sneering
At the earth below with contempt

While those who by some cruel fate
Are out walking. Even the crows
Sit heads bent, their patients a
Lesson. Only the ducks are happy.

Hungry snails sit eagerly eating their
Own leaf plate that is a now a tasty
Drink as well a worthy meal. Worms
Boldly crawling over open ground

Unafraid of blackbirds skulking
Under thick curtains of bushes
At the paths edge wearing wet coats
And a resigned limp look in dark eyes.

Sly fishermen on the banks of the
Lake the path winds around focus
On the dark water with hunched
Backs in camouflaged waterproofs.

Waiting patiently as the incessant rain
Beats down with relentless monotony.
Only the trees open their branches
In welcome while daffodils droop

Their wet heads in unnatural lines
Like soldiers in rows on parade for
A CO's inspection as I slowly walk past
Inextricably linked with their wetness.