WET SUNDAY

Written after a walk near Stewarton, Easter 1972

That Sunday in late winter, warning bells

Were blown about by winds, and the high hiss

Of the river filled the irritated air.

The children, tottering from toy to toy,

Grew vexed and tired. We'll go, we said, we'll go,

We'll all wrap up, close doors, get out of town.

The wind attacked at once, but Lesley's pram

Got bravely over the top like a Sherman tank.

We seemed to take the breath of the wind away.

Then soon, high up on the moors, the desperate sun

Broke suddenly, miles away, out of the storm.

The sky became intense. Then, look! oh, look!

Away to the south, a single thread of smoke!

Thin candle-smoke of a farm on the far hills!

The moment moved us with its furtive calm.

But Time was in a hurry; it was gone.

A swift, tall wave of rain put out the light,

The cold sheet slapped our faces, and we ran.

And Jenny sat on the blundering pram; the baby,

Warm as a teddy-bear, laughed at the splash and the speed.

Well, the water won the day. All the world being wet,

What was the sense in wanting to be dry?

We were seals, sleek otters, heavy wallowing whales;

We slowed to a walk, and were creatures of the storm.

The town turned up again; we went indoors,

And dried and changed. That weary winter day,

We all got gloriously wet - and saw a wonder.
 

James Graham