Used to write a lot of poetry

Do you remember the darkness of countryside
powercuts? That old barn-house was a terrifying
place with the drip, drip, dripping of the rain
seeping like blood through the gaps in the iron.

These were times when the power would be cut dead
by a freak torrential downpour and we’d all stand
shivering in the hay. Why would you walk in your
own filth? Oh, silly creatures! We’d occasionally
peak out to see the cows walking towards each other.
They didn’t seem to mind the rain – mind you –
and the generator whirring away to provide power
for my father was at best an eccentric beast –
mighty loud – like the winding up of local town drunks.

These were long Autumns and cold winters and even
light from the candles seemed dark. The rain clattered
the roof like a bunch of rowdy tap-dancers. What
was a mere lad supposed to do? Such a downpour could,
after all, leave you soaked right through.