You
have made it happen. Water spins light-thrilled. Lines zip across windows,
depend or dash. Puddles accept more circles of their substance. People huddle
under canopies. Workmen wait in sheds. Mind overlooks a dry winter, for now.
Reason keeps a score on warmth. Umbrellas, everyone complains about them
sometime: they don’t obey, they blow away. Nothing much to complain of, living
in the world’s most liveable city. You tell us how it falls on good and bad
alike. And of its substance are we made. We dashed through August puddles,
homeward gloried getting drenched. Nothing’s changed much in that respect.
No comments:
Post a Comment