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Rain – incessant, bitter, unrelenting,
Water smearing down house fronts,
Gathering in vast roadside puddles,
Spitting from the gutter and in front of the door,
Muddied across the lino where the motorbike tyres leave streaks,
Plopping into the plastic bottle that catches it from the leaky ceiling,
Bulleting into my face as I ride helmeted home,
Icy, steady, persistent
‘Snow on the hills’ the radio constantly warns,

But here it’s just eroding, raw, unpleasant,
Occasionally knocking the polythene at the bottom of the chimney,
Filling the atmosphere with damp,
Chasing us into ourselves and warmth, gas fires, dry rooms.


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