Alistair Mackintosh

Rain runs down the pines
Like it rains down the sky
Like tinny tapping and
Tarpaulin wrappings
Tells the time
In the eye of the mind
Of that tiny house in the land cascade

Like dripping drenching
Sodden steps
Steeped in saturated
Walls of sagging slime
And runs and stains
And drops and drains

And the sky is burning now
Alive with full tin cans.