poetry – Brinkinfield

Rain

Sitting northwards of the jet-stream,

Great Britain took the rainfall,

Normally divided up between all of Europe’s lands.
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The fit of the digit was snug, way better than any one of my own.

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A mix of runners, walkers, lovers & friends.

Couples seated on benches, in quiet conversation.
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For flatness, first will come pain.

And suffering.

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The murmuring of the audience increased in volume as he spat out formulaic provocations.
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Not in all my life, have I made such a mess. (read more)

In times gone by,

my tummy looked bloated
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