The Rain I

The rain is your friend,
it cries, pressing itself 
flurry of misery
covered panes, makes you
feel cosy and warm, dry in
the pool of light at your desk,
no necessity to risk
a drench in the dark yet,
pouring of tears out there
for our sins, our sins,
the rain cries for us
but gives us no release
how the trees drip dark green tears
how their barks
shine in the light
the world is drowning in tears
and a wind, a wind of crying
moans under our doors

the wind shifts round to feel 
this side of the building, hard, unyielding,
clammy hands tapping intermittently on the panes
and in here the temperature drops to zero
as if a ghost walked through the wall
and on that wall the art cards glow
sunflowers bellow 
sun, warmth and us, bereft as we winter
behind this small-town granite, grey as stone
endure the endless tread of feet, the telephone
the door squeak
and the rain pouring down

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