The Seasons & The Weather

       Commenting About The Weather

“Damn!” he said, “It sure is hot!”,

then looked at me as if expecting

some appreciative corroboration

of his insightful observation.

All I could think of to say was,

“What the fuck do you expect of South Texas in August?”

Thought for a Sub-Zero Morning

One of the many things

that I disliked

about living on

a tropical island

was the absence

of autumn,

winter, and spring,

and the temperature range

being the same

every day,

rainy season and dry,

except during

typhoons.

                    … What A Man’s Gotta Do

I don’t know why I was so spaced out that morning,

but I left for the dog exercise park

on a day characterised

by a disturbed westerly flow

having forgotten to take my umbrella with me.

Although the sky was blue-dome when we left the car,

I knew that our chances of a dry, full-length ramble were slim,

and sure enough, a half an hour later,

as we were crossing the lawn toward the stick tree

I felt a gust of wind at my back,

turned, and saw a mass of black clouds

approaching rapidly

from the southwest.

Without hesitation I started striding briskly directly back toward the car,

the fox terrier following.

It started spitting as I descended the ramp past the boathouse,

then began raining for real after I’d strode

maybe twenty metres along the riverside footpath.

I ran,

with a thudding, lumbering gait,

the last eighty metres of so

to the Swarbrick Landing car park

and the shelter of my funky old Ford.

It was the first time I’d run in years.

                     Layers

One morning at the park in early April

I had to adjust the layering

of my outer garments

eight times in fifty minutes

as the sun seemed to be playing peek-a-boo with the clouds

and the breeze rose and fell.

For me that’s one of the more lovely things

about living where I live.

I like weather that does something

and doesn’t just sit there.

        Precipitative Indifference

I do love rain,

as did my flowers, herbs, tomatoes, and jalapeños,

back when I cultivated them,

and rain on the roof is one of my favourite sounds,

but when it really pisses down

it did put a crimp on my ability

and inclination

to exercise my dog

when she was alive,

and also to exercise myself

with long, solitary walks

since her demise.

The rain, of course,

doesn’t give a shit

one way or the other

about my attitude toward it.

          Aguas de Amazonia

One chilly, rainy morning,

with my wipers on and off

as I’d driven to the dog park,

I’d been listening

to a Brazilian ensemble called Uakti

playing minimalist compositions by Philip Glass

called Aguas de Amazonia

on mostly home-made percussion instruments and flutes

made from whatever they’d had lying around.

The river was up, but the rain had lightened,

so we were able to make

a complete circuit of the park –

albeit shorter than our usual one

and no game of stick.

As I strode, with the aid of a brolly,

along the surging, rising river,

the somewhat complex last four bars

that had been playing

before I’d switched off the ignition

engulfed my consciousness continuously

and guided my feet

in a magical combination

of mantra and marching music.

Music about the Amazon by the rainy, rushing Waikato:

it worked.

           Here it Comes

That just-before-it-rains

grey-sky thing

with the high overcast,

decreasing atmospheric pressure,

a breeze picking up from the northwest,

and the air dancing

with negative ions –

that’s when the weather

feels best to me.

     Remnants of a Depression

I love rain,

but when the wispy remnants

of an early-summer

subtropical depression caught me out

on the way home from the 4-Square,

the droplets blowing onto my sleeves

despite my umbrella

and the air’s oppressive stickiness

had a telling effect

on my ageing body

and I spent the rest of the day feeling unwell.

My plants loved it, though,

as did, apparently,

the neighbourhood birds,

who tucked into the birdseed in the feeder

on the wall of my front patio.

How the neighbourhood cats,

who keep hoping to get lucky with the birds,

reacted to that wet warm front

I couldn’t say.

                      A Cloudy Sunrise

The sunrise refracting through clouds

during my morning walk

temporarily distracted me

from my sorrow, desperation, and despair.

Clouds make everything so much better.

When I returned home, however,

everything was the same.

Cloudy sunrises don’t last.

       Vernal Indication

I’m not usually out after dark,

but when I did come home

after an evening performance

in late September

I crunched two snails underfoot

in the three steps

between my gate and my door,

without even looking down,

thereby convincing myself

that Spring had indeed arrived.

   Unseasonal Visits

I wonder if

the rare fly

that comes in my open doorway

when it’s well into autumn

does so

because it’s lonely,

or don’t flies get lonely?

Hell if I know.

     Limits To Comprehension

Wind, rain, lightning, hail –

these I can understand.

Money, religion, egotistical power lust –

these make about as much sense to me

as wearing a double-breasted suit.