Day Moon

Do not give a melancholic poet a rainy day. He will turn it into a flood. Musing too long lately. Too much time upon my hands. In desperate need of being paid to muse.
In the wee hours I have stood lately and all but given up the thought of ever getting a message across.
That in turn causes one, namely me, to turn toward bitterness and further introspection. It manifests itself in cursing madly at drivers coming too fast behind me, of things tripping me, of animals just trying not to get in the way of the poet.
We are about to visit Claire Brooklyn at the hospital at noon. That will soothe at the same time smart. For it was in that ward, three years hence, I came to visit my only estranged grandson Nathaniel. It will bring to recall, the entire sordid episode, from the last day in March until today.
It is supposed to rain harder as the day grows longer,darker. I shall have to continue pouring Yeats into the John Clare site. Try and ward off the rain. The day. The melancholy. The flooding.