Remember Rain?

Remember Rain?

There’s something

about the rain, 

falling in tears 

of silver,

from the dull 

and grey 

of a weeping 

sky, softly, 

so softly,

in thousands, 

each in, 

and one, 

of the many, 

the droplets 

of memory, 

upon the window 

pane, 

and so 

to look upwards, 

beyond 

the puddled 

terrace, 

gardens 

of green 

and blossom, 

the tickle 

and trace 

of pouring 

waters, 

to the bridge, 

and beneath,

the endless flow 

of rain 

and river, 

the stream 

of what 

is past,

present, 

and further 

back 

to what is,

to what might

become, 

dreaming 

of spring 

sunlight, 

and summer, 

before I return 

to look 

at my 

footsteps 

in the shadows 

of the 

rising sun.

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