a sorrowful new dawn descends
in rainstorms painted by the night
which in their darkened shades do render
glassy shadows to the light.
no watercoloured dreams are these
its strokes are bold and without guile
and draughted with such cold unease
ill comfort in both form and style.
so paints the rain in this last spring
yet soon an artist young awakes
with pastel palette colours singing
for when summer’s first morning breaks.
let us taste the rain
fresh upon our parted lips
in an April storm
They are not rainclouds
but the dreams
of those
whose tears are done,
thoughts, silver lined
with hope
for the coming of the sun.
the storm is over
and all that was before the rain
is now washed away
the rain holds secrets
which in the mist are revealed
as the sun listens
inside the rainstorm
the world around motionless
as she kisses me
inside the teardrop
existed a universe
which died in the rain
the rain is gone
its song is done
now silence, save the breeze
the forest weeps
and tearful keeps
the sorrow in its leaves
unsure if rain
will fall again
to quench its hallowed halls
but sure as may
there’ll come the day
more rain will surely fall.
the dark clouds form notes
behind telegraph line staves
and music rains down
I hear raindrops plead
against darkened window panes
their cries go unheard
the blighters rock 