Poem (Scout Camp?) By Robert Garnham

Poem (Scout Camp?)

 

The mystic clouds and the slate grey sky,

Ephemeral fears and a fake disguise.

Running round laughing with stainless steel pots.

Frantic in the rain, frantic in the rain.

 

Never once knowingly the origin of mirth.

Eternally dull since the day of his birth.

The deluge lifts, only ever so briefly,

Here it comes again, frantic in the rain.

 

Skimming stones badly in a Welsh fast stream.

Catching his breath at the things he has seen.

Like floods and fears and never-ending pain.

Frantic in the rain, never be the same.

 

Most of them sink without any trace.

A sullen frowning boy with a too-old face.

Sprinkling the surface with crisp packet crumbs.

Frantic in the rain, frantic in the rain.

 

Flinging stones now in a wide high arc.

Decreasing circles widen as a target mark.

Some of them fall with a satisfying plop.

Frantic in the rain, some of them are lame.

 

Clacking noisily on underlying slate

Worn smooth by the flow in the field near the gate

But the deeper the water the louder the splash

Frantic in the rain, frantic in the rain.

 

Sinking without trace on a sultry August night.

Caught tough by the currents and an icy bite

Of melted snow driven, all pretence gone.

Solemn in the rain, never seen again.

 

Robert Garnham

 

Originally from Surrey, Robert writes poems, plays and short stories and peforms comedy performance poetry every now and then. His play ‘Fuselage’ was rehearse-read at the Exeter Northcott Theatre in 2009 by a professional company and he also acted in a professional production of Sarah Kane’s ‘Crave’. He has just finished his first novel, ‘Acrobats in the Bus Station’.

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