On all the broken pavements where I’ve strode
and tripped on their uneven paving stones,
the cloudbursts which ensued have overflowed
and made a chill within my damp old bones.
The floods which washed me clean are clear no more;
such water can’t be drunk but must be boiled.
[Please try to understand this metaphor].
Somehow, an age ago, it all got spoiled.
But when such springs run dry through lack of rain,
I scour the earth for pregnant clouds and more.
When in full-flow, we’d be a hurricane;
although, through fear, they’ll never leave the shore.
I swim through seas and surf the waves each day.
But shoreline girls, by nature, keep away.
© Alan Morrison, 2019