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Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

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Mike Barlow

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Weatherman

I hear you all the time,
singing to yourself as you sniff the sweet peas
or brush your fingers through the birch leaves.
And I hear the things they say about you,
how they love your print skirt and blue apron,
those shiny red clogs
and the basket on your arm
full of sunflowers and dahlias.

But while you're out there, the centre of attention,
I'm trapped in this black sentrybox,
keeping an arsenal of umbrellas
in good working order,
a new ferrule here, an invisible mend there,
a catch resprung,
a spoke or two straightened.

How come you never look my way?
I come out to offer shelter
and you're off indoors
to fiddle with your scarf,
poke an anxious glance up at the sky,
and pray (I read your lips)
I'll go away.

Sometimes I long for a great flood,
imagine I'm swept out to sea
in the coracle of an upturned brolly
where pirates pick me up
and ransom me to the Met Office
for a guaranteed six months unbroken sunshine.

I'd take a well-earned break then,
perhaps a camel trek in the Sahara
or a month or two drinking lager
in a tin shack in Alice Springs,
wondering how long before you miss me.

 

Page(s) 11-12

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