The big, black clouds engulf the sky
where dusk-winged birds to home they fly,
the flutter of which does stir the air –
carries to me the scent of your hair.
Thus I approach the pattering drops
that drench the waiting, golden crops,
fill the air with an earth-like smell,
flushes my cheeks – oh, much too pale.
The doors are shut – no visitors to come,
to tease the rain, a flask of rum;
to wish that you were here with me too,
would drain the flask and paint me blue.
So while you wait and count your days
in your dainty and sparkling ways,
I count my nights too – lying awake,
and write to invite you for my wake.
Art: ‘Morning On The Seine In The Rain’ by Claude Monet