Weather Rhymes

What would the wind want with my old umbrella?
Why does it wrestle to possess it so
and spin me in circles, just like a propeller,
and tug till it turns inside out? Do you know?
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Like mushrooms, umbrellas grow
whenever rain begins to flow.
Rain creeps up with a drip-drop-drip
then comes its drumming fingertips;
its pretty pitter-pattering stutter
that rattles on tarmac and rooftiles and shutters
and plays compositions for plant pots and gutters
till bright sunbeams batter the suns golden gong
and shimmering sunshine showers everyone.

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“Little white feather,
whither do you go?”

“Oh, hither and thither;
wherever wind blows”.
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Pretty stained glass window;
broken in a mishap.
The vicar spoke a little prayer
and a rainbow filled the gap.