Peter John Cooper

Here Comes the Rain

Here comes the rain.
It’s English rain
From English clouds
Grey and ragged
Like dirty cloths smeared across the summer Sky.
Already steady
It’s Filling the drains
With disappointment
Relentlessly washing away
The fun.

Holiday makers sit huddled
In the sea-front shelter
Plastic mac collars turned up
Gazing vaguely at the torn grey sea
Eating sandwiches
And waiting surgery patient
for the coach to come.

Shoppers shiver
Tripping through sudden puddles
In sodden sandals
Carrier bags filling with damp
Dispatches.
Wishing the washing was
Not on the line
And the shopping was already
done

Builders bundle into the front
Of the transit
Windows steamed up.
Looking glumly at the paper
It will be the only sight
They have today
Of the Sun

A woman passing by
Catches my eye
Shoots a small wry
shrug
And Darts a “nice weather!”
Eyebrow to the sky

And I wonder what words
You would use
To explain
That this
Is what it is
To be English