Speak not of clouds
but the sky, grey with its misty burden
lowered upon the earth,
its edges whispered into the air we breathe,
damp, clinging,
wet with the pinprick silvered drops
magically coating the fibres
of our clothes, caressing our souls
with the essence of the sodden earth,
our skin touched by the fingers
of the soft rain, gently,
brushing our hands and eyelids,
turning at last to placid showers,
perhaps to downpour
to fill the brooks, the streams,
the rivers, and so define this place,
this land of water,
this grey and pleasant England.
Give us this day our daily rain,
and forgive us our umbrellas.
Line Count: 20
Free Verse (of course)
For The Daily Poem: WdC Birthday Edition, Sept. 05 2020
Prompt: Listen to today's instrumental song (Eluvium - Prelude for Time Feelers) and write a poem based on wherever the music takes you.
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