 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
SHOWERS
The fitful weather changes every hour,And many a footstep hurries from the shower;
The men at plough, the shepherd on the lea,
Look up and scamper to the nearest tree;
The ditcher, ere the last shower's hardly gone,
Runs to the bush and puts his jacket on,
And in escaping haste is often seen
To where the ash hangs o'er the thistly green,
An hollow dotterel wasted to a shell,
Large as a little hut and known as well
To all the outdoor tenants in the fields,
That from the heaviest tempest shelter yields;
Here two or three were met to shun the rain
That slowly cleared and faster fell again.
| The Poems of John Clare | |