It’s Raining Again
The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.
She’s tried.
She’s really tried.
She’s wept tears
of frustration.
She’s wept tears
of anger.
She’s wept tears
of sadness
that flow from the mountains
to the sea.
It’s the vowels
she finds hard.
And the consonants.
And the mutations.
And the way it’s spoken form
changes
over the distance traveled
in the time it takes her
to make a small cloud
and a tiny puff of wind.
A tiny puff,
not enough to to raise the cloud
above the mountains.
So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.
Or blows in angry swirls.
And still
she tries.
She really tries.
She weeps tears
of frustration.
She weeps tears
of anger.
She weeps tears
of sadness.
Floods of tears.
Lakes.
Tears which fall
in cascades
from the mountains
to the sea

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