Too Long.
Too long hangs rain in our valley.
Sky\'s clouded face drizzles cracked patterns
over sown ground
while half-grown plants face wilt-hazard.
Too long has water earth-wronged.
Makes mud by changing each leaf to sponge
that sucks out green to
leave brown where verdant belongs.
Small lakes rise in the hedgerow-rose.
As tears of lime run down from hilly meadows
sad rinsing brings whispers
of wet killing by un-seasonal cold.
Too long wet feathers shudder and droop.
While across far horizons a fox runs foodless
as damp cubs look for sun
and prey broods in flooded hen-coop.
Too long a chill has made harvest weep.
Thatched cottages drip in the village street,
trees bleed moss and weight
burdens the thick-coated sheep.
Swathed in neglect flags every garden.
Knee-deep in unattained tasks the farmyard
sprouts idle days as folk bide
time waiting for signs of drying to start.
Too long hangs rain in our valley.