The rain is having its way with us,
And there’s no use nattering at the weather maps
Or calling in experts on the paranormal.

We want the trees fluffy, not all cramped-in like this.
The sheen of summer’s gone from the muddy gazebo.
It’s like living in the spit valve of a big trombone.

All day, the wet abrasions rub us wrong,
And all night, raindrops ricochet from the roof
Like an ogre’s lullaby beating us to sleep.

We don’t know who to blame, God or Darwin,
And the sky’s not taking sides, too busy
Creaming the air down to cold soup.

What does the forecast say? Extra helpings of the same,
And floods backing up in the front yard,
Where the pine tree leans like a swizzle stick.

Oh let it pour over us like delusions on a beauty queen!
Our hearts are waterproof, and our minds floated off
Three days ago, little rafts on the river of oblivion.

Illustration by Blair Thornley