Art and global warming

The rain man

Rain clouds make rain colours of
litmus red dust bowl fumed by cyclic hydrocarbons.
Diesel is pink for SUV and kerosine bred under milk wood
taking life’s last root from trees telling their death.

Rain on Milk Wood, milk the irrational substance, 
water with a bitta fat or you
pay more to have more taken before loading in your trolly. 
Milk in your tea - bovines sacred as the right 
to stand your personal motor car in your personal rain. 
The notion of Sharing removed 
from the dictionary by Orwell defined stealth. 
So rain bombs flow our folly into swollen rivers and intemperate lakes as cows fart in flooded fields chewing to the fore, methane at the rear and summer stays as cold as charity. 

Rain clouds make rain music, Brahms Raindripped a sonata while Chopin thumped on Mallorca roofs to thwart Tuberculosis depression.
Gene sang in it, Johnnie whistled then walked in it, the brothers did their crying in it, Julie demanded a river then had it covered by Justin all with eyes stinging from hydrogen-ion excess.

Rain clouds rain on rain art and put dots 
into impressionist catalogues 
of wet streets to make the test by parapluie and puddle an artist’s skill. 
Gainsborough’s damp skins make English beauties live forever in galleries where no rain can enter, not even in protesters’ soup.

Rain clouds in rain literature, Woolf’s suffragette felt the cold lash on bourgeois skin and took the stripes for all working women who didn’t give a toss about a frippery, just wanted to get out of it and ask if the ballot box would take their working week a shorter way, and rest assured, they won’t vote if it’s raining that day. 
But heroines have more important work to do than listen.




Rain clouds make for evocative light, and fashion statements,  
hats to hold hairdoos, umbrellas for shoulders 
and for leaving  on buses and trains, 
handy to speed a departure from the puddles lapping at the kerbstones over blocked drains that took sunshine for granted. 

Rain clouds scud by in Beufort numbers
trying to remember if you can get a beer at an isobar. 
Depression deepening so ask Chopin, 
who knows it’s no and chops his drops into ordered slots
leaving drink reserved for pummeling water 
cascading along gutters,descending downpipes, or filling buckets with drips that had the peace of mind to avoid the torrent. 

Rain isn’t music as it lashes lakes, 
but the fury of a world undone. 
Let the lilies laugh, fish frolic in the Sahara, 
the Pope pray for salvation, the politician whine, ‘if you’d just done it my way,’ but he dredges the river anyway
releasing pyridine and dead crabs on beaches from Berwick to Bridlington.
 
The rain now comes with an adept perspicacity 
that washes away the evidence of sins committed
and with it the sins, 
leaving the sinners clean as a life-jacket whistle.

Mediterranean surface temperature eight degrees up 
this awesome autumn so evaporation and cooling condensation, release the accumulated warmth,holding water in diluvian swathes contained by rivers sweeping through houses then houses sweeping down rivers until a bridge arrests the progress.

But this is progress!
Ask an entrepreneur, a banker or hedge-fund manager.
A CEO tells you, ‘it must be true, I told you so,
shareholders have to live, so spare a thought, 
cos it’s not called venture capitalism for safety’s sake. 
Gotta turn a buck and turn the insurance claim back whence the rain man came. 
North Pole up 20 in February.

Just keep saying, it wasn't me it wasn't me.’
It always worked in the past.