Soleil de Plomb

the sky is hanging crushed,

under an oppressive dense

heavy morning sunlight set low

above our worried frowning eyes,

‘soleil de plomb’ the French

would say, my mother would

have dismissively complained

by saying it was close, stifling

or just uncomfortable, thus

we are all governed by the

proclivities of the weather,

we should praise it, revere

its capricious contradictions,

delight in the ungovernable

inconsistency of its moods,

fewer things in life these days

remain untouched, much is

tinkered with, adjusted for

the sake of convenience

or avaricious profitability,

weather reigns supremely

cantankerous, a resolute

‘fuck you’ elemental force

determined to screw-up

the very best laid plans

and I can’t help but love it,

especially when the lawn

needs a mow

Published by grahamrsherwood