Sometimes the land turns into a puddle
That we must stomp our thick rubber boots through.
A whisper from our rain-slicker’s cuddle
Keeps us dry from the water the clouds drew
From the wintry coast right down the street.
I can watch the drips coming from my hood,
Making a waterfall down to my feet
That is the start of the path through the wood.
At this downpour, the trees don’t give shelter,
And we will eventually get soaked.
We will live according to the letter
As to what God considered having joked.
They predict the sun will break through the cloud,
But for now, it is the rain that is proud.
John Collings 