poem – Brinkinfield

Rain

Sitting northwards of the jet-stream,

Great Britain took the rainfall,

Normally divided up between all of Europe’s lands.

The fit of the digit was snug, way better than any one of my own.

A mix of runners, walkers, lovers & friends.

Couples seated on benches, in quiet conversation.

For flatness, first will come pain.

And suffering.

The murmuring of the audience increased in volume as he spat out formulaic provocations.

Not in all my life, have I made such a mess.

In times gone by,

my tummy looked bloated