Somewhere Over The Rain

There are no colours; just words, dull and grey.
All around is the vehement sound of rushing cars that screech,
Piercing the watery air. Humidity drifts –

It is cool and pleasant. Impetuous vehicles discomfort
The semblance; their tyres hiss as they slither,
Threatening a splash. How the pedestrians shun to the sidewalk.

Squelch, squelch, the boot-march! These are little children –
Fun is characterised by fallen twigs and leaves. Their stomping
Noises are theatrical, pounding and gasping

In the cold. Clouds hang from invisible gallows
Dolorously over the rooftops. Their movement is heavy and mournful,
Like billows of thick grey smoke. Overhead is thunder,

It awakens the baby that inhabits
A mother’s bosom. Afterwards he will cry the sound
Of scratching metal that shivers and shrieks.

I am but an observer. The voices of leaves have been stolen
After they fell onto a human blackness. I cannot hear them;
There is only the angry rush across

The road. How I miss gentleness;
Imperfection is so dull. From my window I cannot see the irises –
They are surrounded by pickets, not an English white,

But brown and fat, obscuring a beauty.
Above it is the greyness in motion;
It speaks of noises – they are loud and unnatural.