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Viking Bay, Broadstairs, Kent

BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY



As the dawn breaks to a misty morn,
The clouds roll in slowly from the sea,
Perhaps the same clouds that produced the violent storm,
The one that could be seen across the channel last evening,
With huge streaks of lightening glowing in the twilight.
You remember feeling sorry for the people boarding the ferry,
Leaving behind a pleasant warm tranquil evening,
For the fierce storm that they were heading towards,
Then as the sun disappears behind the clouds,
Your memories of the previous day are brought up to the present.


You feel the coldness of a few spots of rain on your skin,
The clouds darken quickly and they now fill the sky,
In a matter of moments the wind has gathered pace,
As you reach for a jumper you think to yourself,
If you didn't know better you'd think it was November.
Is that thunder you can hear in the distance?
Or is it the rumble of a juggernaut passing by,
As it makes its way slowly past the camp,
Then onwards through the narrow winding road,
That leads down to the ferry terminal.


The sky is now a kind of charcoal grey,
And the rain is swirling round blown by the wind,
Another rumble in the distance this time you know its thunder,
You decide that now would be the best time to move back inside,
Opting for the dryness and relative warmth under cover.
Just then as you look up a flash and another roll of thunder,
Those heavily laden clouds in the distance now move faster,
Closer and closer by the second, as the wind starts howling,
The rain is lashing, the thunder crashing and the lightening flashing,
Just another typically English Bank Holiday Monday.

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JUST CRAZY

As you walked home you began to whistle,
Then you snagged your ankle on a thistle,
The artist stood painting at his easel,
Is that really feasible?

The lambs frolic in the meadow,
As birds flit in and out of the hedgerow,
Where the sun beats down on the ground,
A fox is chased by a hound.

The months turn into seasons,
And a spy is charged with treason,
Has that tractor run out of diesel?
Was that a stoat or was it a weasel?

While a man fishes by the lake,
His wife's wearing pearls are they fake?
I can't seem to reason at all,
Are we in the spring or the fall?

The mansion it appears has been sold,
And the farmer's gone looking for gold,
The pound''s fallen against the mark,
On the hotel menu is shark.

The weather now turns cold,
As his daughter flees the fold,
The weakness of the sun,
A flash from the photographers gun.

I've lost my Wellington boot,
A bank giving away loot,
His wife said he was lazy,
But he said no! Just crazy.

JUST CRAZY ©1998RJMiller

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