Split splat
Pitter patter –
So, the rain taps at my window,
then batters.
First in angst, then with calm,
Heavily and hazily, in the balmy
February

I watch and wait, drinking in the day
As Ryanair fritters my time away …
I am not much of a waiter – what can I say?
Standards must be met; checks must be made.

Tick tick, tut tut,
I sigh with dismay
At the wheelie bags and backpacks blocking my way.
I impatiently push through to my seat, 20A,
Then watch on at the wearisome chaos and disarray.

Delay after delay; day after day . . .
Or at least, it seems to be the way,
When asses in the aisles are shoving, then halting . . .
Donkeys all around me, I think to myself, nagging and braying,
Until nobody knows (or cares) what they are doing, or saying!

I stare out the window,
knowing that again,
I will have to change flights,
And endure more of the same.

It is only rain, where is the harm?
No conflict,
no confusion,
no cause for alarm.
Without complaint it works its charm,
Landing like glass pearls along my forearm.

Pitter Patter,
Split splat
It will follow me to Scotland . . .
Imagine that.