THUNNER PLUMPS or Il Pleut Plus: A Poem by James Barron
A poem by James Barron
Written on holiday in France
A’m sittin by the wunda, watchin rain come doon,
It wusnae like that earlier, whun we set aff for the toon.
The big pine tree in front of me throws cones aff wae the spits,
The wather that we hae at hame rarely turns as rugh as this.
We twigged it drivin back this road, the darkness geen a hint
O what wuz happenin near at hame, what nature had intent;
Fur the neybours sayed it hadnae rained fur nearly saxty days,
An the rivers toul a tale when you cud see their clinket ways.
In less than twonny minutes wae the claes trailed aff the line,
We baith got settled in the hoose, we’d med it jist in time
Till the thunner plumps were happenin, an the lightenin geen a flash;
In twonny mair it had queetned doon, wae jist the odd damp patch.
I’ anither thurty minutes it had started up again,
Nae thunner noo, the air wuz cleared fur gentle fallin rain.
As A look oot in the distance, there’s mist amang the trees;
The risin damp alang wae heat will surely farmers please.
The hey’s been cut an saved, and the silage A’m sure first,
But for the barley, corn, an sunflooer this’ll quench their lang hel’ thirst,
Fur water here’s a precious thing, an whun it dasnae rain ava,
Anither strain fur country folk wud put them tae the waa.
There’s still rummels in the distance whur on ither yins it draps;
The sun beams thru, the wee birds sing, they’re gled o the relapse.
We taak at hame aboot the rain (that niver falls like this);
So be gled for moderation, as it surely is a bliss.