AT WAR WITH WEATHER

The seed went into the ground all right
Or so he claimed when it was sown
But then he turned his eyes to the skies
And darkly frowned a wrinkled frown
From his whiskered neck
To his tan-lined crown

Thunder rumbled – Rain, he grumbled
But the sky had nothing in it
The bastard won’t rain a drop
He rasped as if he himself was dry
He spied the clouds with squinted eyes
Dark slits of steel-grey flint

After a week he gave up hope
He mumbled profane sentiments
He shook his fist at the barren clouds
And called on God to damn them
To Hell where he said we’d all go
If it didn’t rain soon

I didn’t see him for a while
Another week slipped by dry
When he reappeared one day
He looked a lesser man
He slouched and cursed and spat
But stopped and sat to chat

He said the end was nearly here
His crop was all but buggered
His shoulders slumped and a tiny tear
Rolled down his grizzled cheek
He said that he was finished
And seemed a man diminished

Then a wind got up and clouds blew in
We could smell it in the air
There you are I said and heartily
Slapped a hand on his back
I thought that he would smile at that
But he only winced and said
If the sonofabitch only knows when to quit


Gregg Norman lives and writes in a lakeside cottage in Manitoba, Canada. He reads poetry every day to retain his frail grip on sanity.
His work has been accepted by numerous poetry journals and literary magazines, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Borderless Journal, Synchronized Chaos, Book of Matches Literary Journal, Medusa’s Kitchen, Horror Sleaze Trash, Impspired Literary Magazine , The Littoral Magazine, MasticadoresUSA, The Piker Press, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Raconteur Magazine, and Suburban Witchcraft Magazine.