Grey
(Or silver?)
Quicksilver
Pulsing above
The haunted city.
And after the grey
Rain
Darting,
Then drumming.
Now a downpour.
Reins released in vain
More rain.
Wind
Raping
Your curtains,
Glass surrendering
To this perfect thunder,
Seiging
Our room
Conquering
The station sodden
To its schedules,
Hammering the rails.
And after
That rain
Freshness
Just like yours
On a dewed morning:
Hair tempting the temples
Of majesty behind the eyelids.