I reminded myself that when I dreamed up this notion of writing fourteen 14-line poems in November, my intention was to have at least some of the poems wrangle events from my daily life into the stanza form that I seem to have fallen enduringly in love with. So here’s one about this morning’s walk. In case explanation is needed: the BOM is the Bureau of Meteorology.
November verse 9: Our morning walk A cool spring day, and rain's predicted. Undeterred, our morning walk, by Covid rules now unrestricted, took place just on eight o'clock. We left our raincoats and umbrellas in the car. The croquet fellers played in t-shirts on their green and clouds were few and far between. Happy flitting wagtails, peewees, happy dogs who strain on leads to sniff whatever's in the weeds, happy walkers, far from freeways. Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, the BOM can't always get it right.