Poor sods: with raindrop-dribbled necks all bowed,
they plod the puddled streets in squelching shoes
beneath a sky that’s thick and grey with cloud.
What fools! What drives these masochists to choose
to brave the rain, and on a Sunday too?
Some even run — in shorts! — they must be mad,
with plastered hair and shirts that stick like glue.
Those crazies! Can’t they see the weather’s bad?
Why not stay home and read, or write, or doze
in cushion-coddled armchairs? Time slips by.
Cocooned in comfort, sigh and paint your toes
as madmen splash and splutter, yet don’t die.
From cozy bed, I red-eyed watch skies weep
as restless night proceeds; they soundly sleep.
This poem has a sister sonnet: Winter Running