Ochre, ochre, ochre...

Ochre blotches, betray the dry breath
of June.
As we bring home
the August supplement.

Last week's answers, merely
bring more questions.
And I ask,
why is he so cryptic?

That which thunder keeps at bay...
Heat? Light?
Stagnation...
A stuffed solar shirt.

On TV, the fuzzy grey cross-hatching
swathes our green
and pleasant land
(that of eternal meteorological bickering).

I roll in the rain;
that gutters across;
a deluge, down;
and puddles swarm the edge of vision.

I scored lines through the white,
dry sheet.
Then hung out to dry,
in sun that never came.

My coffee breaks, now
in mist-filled intervals.
As I wonder what tomorrow's post
will bring...