My second groomsman, Nicholas, was coming for a chat.
He’d worked all day, an East Coast low was bearing down with speed.
At lunch, he’d phoned me just to check my mood, to intercede
in case the mem’ries of my late wife’s birthday left me flat.

While out, he thought he’d buy some wine so we could celebrate.
Nick’s parents came from Italy, his palette more refined
than mine. He thought a sparkling white, but in the end, inclined
towards a port. An easy drink for us to liquidate.

He Nicked off early hoping to avoid the promised rain,
in vain. He’d left his run too late, (although he drove a car,)
as nightshade nimbus clouds gave chase and surfed the isobar,
and roads in flood gave promise they would wash him down the drain.

With the drumming of thunder, I heard on the doorbell a chime.
Any port in a storm, he arrived in the Nick of time.
 

                                   18 April 2024