Fine
by untonuggan


they call these days fine
in England the land of erupting
thrashing rain pours forth
into drizzle
rivulets running down sodden green fields-
the green dazzles emeralds
on fine sun-splashed summer days

I call myself fine
in parties to passersby the polite
thing to do is mask the deluge
threatening to erupt amidst the fog
mist abyss with no landmarks
so easy to lose oneself on the moor-

then at last a mooring, latch onto safety
wait as the howls of lashing lost winds pass
deep breaths soften tear-laced throats
releasing unrestrained voices of a thousand sparrows
chortling chirping welcoming
weary travelers to a fine cup of tea

staring at barometers is pointless
no storm endless
brilliant days cycle into night