Rain at Sixty MPH
The moment I elect to go out on the motorbike
the clouds roll in, it starts to rain, I tell it do not like
but a promise is a promise and to Sheffield I will go
with thunder notwithstanding, at least it didn't snow.
A piece of tape secures the satnav there and back again
(It's a piece of paper, really, with directions writ in pen)
I set off in the pouring rain and pootle through the town
hoping for the sun but rain precipitated down.
I rode through Sheffield centre and then out the other side
What is it with the road names that they seem to want to hide?
I made it to the road and parked, then panted up the slope
the Priory is a lovely place, no wonder it's in Hope.
The artwork was astounding, the etchings very fine;
the altered books were fascinating – dare I say divine?
She's just the sort of artist that I wanted to become--
just the sort that I am not, for I sit on my bum.
I wish I'd had the money to support the ladies there
who daub themselves with etching ink and cut off all their hair
It made me feel inadequate, the wonders they produced,
the utterly fantastic works creativity had loosed.
I rode home in the solace that although I never etch
I have at least the training to make a simple sketch
look like the lake I'm sitting by, or splashing paint around
can bring to life the demons whom my books have run to ground.