In five degrees of February,
the galvanised chairs have pearls
on the curves of their top bars, strung with glee
by a bitter day that hurls
down fistfuls of stinging rain,
though it cannot manage hail:
'Would if I could,' mutters meanly again
lashing a whip of a tail.
"Come sit outside on my pearly chairs."
"No. I'd just mar their beauty."
"Come out, you coward. I have some spares."
"No. I must do my duty."
"What duty's that, that it can't take a sip
in my drawing room so fair?"
"I must write of your wit and of pearls that drip
from the sweet tongue of your air."
"Ah. You're a liar and a flatterer too."
"And you, Mr Feb, are a pirate.
And were I to sit out for tea with you
you'd soon find cause to get irate.
Your cutlass and your cudgel you wear so plain,
so impressive your kata with 'em;
you'd whip up a mini-hurricane
with a flourish of your martial rhythm."
"Well, you have quite a way with words,
to be sure, and if it be your duty
to tell my divilment to the fearful herds
and to well-report my beauty,
I'll let you sit inside this time,
sip your coffee and tap tip tap
on your gizmo to conjure me a rhyme -
though I'd rather have a power rap."
.................
Walter De La Mare somewhere about, today.
