It rains,
High time,
It's high summer.
Soft drops
At first
To quench the thirst
Of Protea
And Hyacinth alike.
But then
More persistent
Insistent on its mission
To dress
And cleanse the mountains,
Feed the falling streams,
To rivers,
Faster, more detemined,
Ever to the seas.
Trees bow
So boughs may drink their fill
Village ponds respond
By growing for the day.
City streets
Almost replete,
Take time
To send the grime
From shop facades
In torrents to its drains.
Far distant Lovers
Shed their tears
Their deepest fears
That they will never touch again
And let them fall
To mingle with the rain.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn