An Unusual And Unusually Wet Wednesday
Wednesday’s child is full of woe?
No. Not though the sky is high
With clouds black as a crow’s wing
Bidding to wet-blanket joy.
Trying to clamp down the lid
Of the pot where the evening
Is cooking. It can’t win through.
Not this damp day. Nor with these three kids.
The boys, the boys….
Teeming fine nights like this one sluice and shine.
Here evening reels across torrential streets
And gleaming streams of surging gladness run.
Now darkness is grilled and spiced, precise and
Keen. Glee, clear and clean, turns the spit and burns
Sadness off over a sizzling griddle
Heated and barbecued, seasoned with wit.
And books play a nocturne, a waltz (thank you
Szopen) . Thought sings, hangs loose, or tautened, screws
Around the table where three minds open,
Nourish one another and find life good.
We have dined on more than food,
Lapped up more (and less) than wine.
Hands reach across white linen.
Eyes are creasing, words piling,
Trembling, towering, high. And tumbling.
An apotheosis, this is, in
And out of blithe insinuation.
Ideas smile as they climb and fall.
A triangle of kindness
A circle of much more than mirth
Let it rain. See the floods flowing
Note the broken brollies blowing,
Now hats are flying, caught, then Gone.
In this sparkling lasting second,
In this sweet time, watch the water
Rise as steam, an offering
To the disregarded clouds
Warmed and simmered, made benign by
Friendship formed and hearts glowing.
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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