I tell the dogs wistfully:
there is no possibility
of a walk today.
Neither dog is a fan
of Charlotte Bronte
and her orphan Jane:
the allusion
is wasted on them -
and on you, Reader?
My voice induces
hopeful tail-wagging.
Still the rain is
sheeting down,
the sky dark grey,
and us stir-crazy.
Enough of cozying
up with a good book -
or gnawing an old bone -
then dozing off!
Well! - this being not
chilled Yorkshire but mild
Melbourne, clouds now
part, rain ceases,
everything gleams
under fresh sunbeams.
Let's go! first hot-foot
to the park creek
in full brown spate
under the footbridge
surging to the lake
to be cool calming
and collected.
To think how long
it didn't flow - that eight-
year drought of ours
when we pined
for downpours like
those we grumble about
now! when we wondered:
will Melbourne ever
again have green lawns?
when the panicky government
installed huge pipe-lines
to filch inland water
for the city, began to build
vast desalination plants…
Enough already - since
rain came, dams and lakes
are flush or fullish,
snowfields snowy,
rivers healthy;
the grass is stealthily
growing far too fast -
for a time, for a time.
Meanwhile enjoy
an hour, a half day
of bright possibility.
The dogs wag tails.
Water dogs is what they are:
they'd gladly plunge
webbed fore-feet first
into the lake right under
the sign warning them not to.
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