Reservoirs still empty
But droplets dangle
Their grip stretched,
Dripping from limp limbs.
Swollen rivers throb,
Flood waters out of control.
Trees hang,
Forlornly mourning
The glorious giddy warmth
And sweet summer idling
Of the English sun.
A distant memory,
A jaded, faded dream.
No hint of blue
In a cold, grey sky,
Where clouds brood
And menace,
Almost touching the ground.
The sound of silent sobbing.
Even the weeping willow,
That lover of water
Has had enough.
Plans ruined,
Picnic blankets pulled
From beneath plastic plates and cups.
Languor on loan,
Elsewhere today.
Under brollies and hoods
Weary faces trudge on,
Hoping that tomorrow
Brings the sun.

© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


About Vicky Newham

Vicky Newham is a writer, living in Whitstable, Kent. She writes crime fiction, psychological thrillers and science fiction. Her main projects are novels, but she also writes short stories, flash fiction, non-fiction articles and some poetry.
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