"Bright with sunny periods
some cloud, occasional showers"
says the local TV forecast.
It has been persistently precipitating
for more than twelve hours.
On the doorstep
a soggy mass of pulp
is all that is left
of my note to the milkman.
The dog wags her tail
in a desperate message;
I open the back door,
she steps out,
stops,
looks round,
then dashes for the nearest
patch of green,
does that she has to do.
Back inside,
the hearthrug
doubles as a towel.
Only an incoming aircraft
breaks the greyness
of the birdless sky.
Outside my window,
the sodden rosebush
drips.
