Under Manchester Skies

Under Manchester skies do I stand,

Wet.

The steel-grey skies release their cargo upon me.

A steady drizzle,

Horrible drip-drip soaking wet weather that never stops.

Through my coat, through my clothes,

My very skin threatens to slough away.

I stare up through the rain at the steel-grey skies

And reflect that I cannot remember a single Old Trafford Test

That wasn't affected by the weather in some way.

I try to blink the rain from my eyes,

Scowling and squinting at the skies above,

Wishing I could find a better metaphor than "steel-grey."

Or is it a simile?

It has been so long since I studied the details

And since I am a poet,

It really is something I should know.

I raise my collar and step forwards with a sigh,

Only to step in a puddle.

The Manchester skies are steel-grey today,

Just like they were yesterday.