A Gentle Rain
the rain settles like hands upon you, cold fingers remembering your face there is no one in the street but the washed few who think that it is for them there are small voices in the rain, no one talks, and you can think without the urgent sun and the melancholy drift of it, the grey and insipid pouring that allows you to shrink back we can rest there, a moments withdrawal from the world look at the solitary crows and how the rain boils off their ungodly capes they cackle with their jaunty hops, pleased, I would say, to be so ridiculous in the carnival of wet and shivering but not too much of it under the dripping leaves listening to the drizzle and sizzle I once sat in the woods as a boy when a thrush told me stories with its rusty-hinge song and when it rains now and the sky falls black and brooding, I take his hand and wait for the music