When the rain comes down
in torrents
in autumn,
greeny-yellow leaves
float on small rivers
in the streets.

The tree trunks
turn black
in the wet weather,
and the noise on roofs
is steady, drumming,
and comforting.

Deafening, on tin.

Slowly the rain falls
off and is reduced
to a fine mist
that flies
on the wind
and makes hoods
and hats
irrelevant.

Large masses of
fast-moving clouds
streak greyly
across the heavy skies.

The leaves
that escape the gutters
and deep drains,
are stuck fast
to the dark sidewalks.

Out of the raw wind,
coats and boots dry
by the fire,
and the smell
of wet wool,
and woodsmoke,
and hot drinks
hangs on the warm air.