I don't know about this rain

I don’t know about this rain

that’s greyed my day with grainy

streaks and tricked me into a few

winks upright on the sofa

while I thought I was reading

Kevin Ireland’s last collection.

This rain is so set in his old ways

that I’ve been duped out of my

customary ride over the Brick Bay hill

or a paddle up the Matakana River

for coffee, leaving me with no effort

on which to lay blame for my torpor

only that hypnosis of repetition

of patter and trickle from dawn

to dark to dawn to dark, dreary

days punctuated by cups of tea

and the need to wee till it starts

to feel like this is the way it ends.