I was in Cornwall recently, for a break from it all, and we had incredible weather for a few days.

Weather kind enough to let us sit on the beach in shirtsleaves and shorts, walk around without having to take a coat and just bimble about walking around and getting up to stuff.

By the beach, there was a fantastic cafe stationed in an abandoned hotel – set just below a magical wood leading to another fantastic cafe in an old watermill (stuff of legend, I tell you).

Alot of our time was spent wandering the woodland paths between the two.

And in so doing, we noticed that the cafe by the beach was well stocked in vegan ice cream.

Working out the best flavour was, as you can image, a very serious business, requiring much skill and conversation under an umbrella, wondering what the hassle was with those of the rush-religion.

Suffice to say, the ice cream came off second best, but to great contentment and, after all, ice cream consumption on a hot day is for the greater good, of course.

However, there came a time when the rain happened upon the day, when the ice cream was less appealing and the warmth of a place to hide from the outside world won out.

At this point, our attention turned to hot chocolate, good food and particularly the food served at the kiosk by the pub, having been rescued by a bus in the midst of a tropical downpour, walking for miles in soggy trainers.

The soggy crows we made friends with benefitted, too.

So at that point, we resolved to remain indoors.

And I wrote a poem.

As ever.

So here it is: Rainy Days.

Rainy Days

Drifting rain softens the ache

Of sun-days and dreamy days

Are rainy days sitting staring.

You can think of all sorts

In a rain-trance, sitting window-bound,

Tea’d-up, toasted, jammed – butter-crust-munched –

Marmite, too, for the wicked –

There is time in a dawdle for your mind.

Headspace is an infinite realm

Fit for the rambling of reflection,

Repurpose niggle-wrinkles

In the calm, calm smooth of sense –

Letting soul-epiphanies

Build patient wisdom.

Rain time is your time,

Your time is high time for you

To meet yourself again

And tell yourself important,

Tell yourself caring,

Tell yourself love

 In the ramshackle

Cross-cascade of busy-ness.

Rainy days’re softly, softly days

Of slippers and woolly jumpers,

Sofas and settees with steaming mugs,

Watching, whiling, wondering, healing.

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