[Richard G]

.
Matti Ka Attar


It happened on the Old Gwent Road
the year that some of you were born.
A day as June as any other
in that month. A Wednesday morn

-ing, almost lunch-time, quarter to,
and turning right off Samwell Street
is Mrs. Macklin in her coat
(the one as loud as parakeets.)

Now, she is just a passer-by
and passing by is what she will.
You see, already, she has gone.
Her tale it is not mine to tell.

But listen. Listen, for the tick
of ferrule on the pavement stones.
To the strict accompaniment
of his umbrella Mr. Jones

is crossing by The Mangled Cat.
The traffic stops to let him pass
then Gruff Patel resumes his pedalling,

somewhere else to be, he has.
Past the new replacement bus stop,
past the boutique World of Len,
Mr. Jones is ticking, townbent,
unaware. It's almost ten

to twelve. The lesson not yet over;
from a classroom window eyes
are staring out in hope of rescue.
They're about to be surprised.

Out of the blue. For blue the sky was
on that day not long ago
a cloud was seen to summit Up Hill
heading townwards with its shadow.

Grey, the cloud. It greyly lumbered
elephantine, herd of one
lumping, rainful, down the road
till over Mr. Jones it hung.

And for a moment nothing happened;
nothing that would mystify.
Then, with neither peep nor warning,
down the cloud fell from the sky.

Down it fell, all meteoric.
And with a damply thunderous crash
it landed square on Mr. Jones

and his umbrella. Both were squashed
as flat as omelettes. Flat as felt.
As flat as foxgloves when they're pressed.
It shattered paving stones and windows.
All in all it made a mess.

It made the national news as well,
and there was an investigation.
The country's finest minds were charged:
"Explain this strange precipitation."

But they could not. And they have not
unravelled reason from that skein:
Was the nimbus suicidal?
Is the climate change to blame?

A month it took to shift the cloud,
the army cordoned off the road
and after three exhaustive tests
they filled a hundred lorry loads

with cloudstuff which they took away.
A reservoir's what it became:
the Silver Lining Water. It is
famous for its scent of rain.

And Mr. Jones they folded neatly
in a special envelope:
posted to the local crem
he vanished in a puff of smoke.

The paving stones they still need fixing.
"Soon. Soon." The council say.
At least the school's repaired the window
I look out of every day.

Less in hope than expectation
I keep a careful weather eye
and never carry an umbrella
just in case: that was why.



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