Cabin Fever

At first the rain is welcomed as a guest
into this city whispered by the river;
thirsty sandstone, dusty glass and rusty old tin roofs
luxuriate, unclasp their hands and drum their knuckles urgently,
trees reach out their limbs; the grasses sigh
'At last! At last you've come!' as rain knits all the parts
together, leaving sheltering cocoons within roofed walls,
where people, possums, creatures mesmerised by water's
eluence, transfixed by vistas glistening, are captive to
a million needle points and strands
besieging, rinsing grime away.

But then, like any guest who overstays,
the boon begins to pall. Interminably falling, pooling,
it unravels close-knit soil, dislodging roots
and infiltrating old and brittle sheet-
iron roofs, disintegrating guttering,
flooding parks and drains.

Birds who celebrated cautiously
become dismayed; refuge sought in warm,
dry rooms begins to spell constraint.
The sunflowers beside the sill are drooping,
while the grass grows wild and matted,
all the sodden rooftops splay like open
books, face down, their readers trapped
inside the covers by relentless rain.