A grey rain patters, paints the houses. Trees–
Once bold, once green– now bent, now dark. They drink
Their fill and take more still. And more than that
Still fills each hollow: tiny basins spot
The road, distorted mirrors rippling with
Each piercing bead of grey. Above, the plain,
Unending canvas overtakes the art,
Erasing details, colors, textures, life.
Patter, patter, torrent drown, relent not
As the last of sun dips down. Dimming
Wetness weakly cut by artificial
Lights, hung high above, secured on brick wall.
The dampened surface glimmers in the light.
Without illuminating, brightens up the night.