Ode to a Shropshire Autumn
Luscious paddocks drunk with rain smother the land like the green baize of a pool-table
after a pub fight, dreading their next waterboarding, swallowing what they can,
choking up the rest. No season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Change is coming, most likely for the worst.
Supine beneath the dead weight of sky – enduring - no thought of surrender.
Observe, the drowning fields of green. Brown runoff oozes thickly through hedgerows,
fills the dyke and onto the potholed, fractured lane now slick with nitrates and misfortune.
Gentle rain turned flood. Tortured nature in revolt, tormented beyond reason.
Surely this must end. Black clouds spent. The dreary susurration attenuates.
Intermittent raindrops fall, leaves shiver in the breeze. Fury sated. A final raindrop.
An afterthought. The landscape holds its breath. Is it over? Is she done?
Say a little prayer. Give thanks to La Niňa, Daughter of Chaos
Flight of the dragonfly 