It rains,

High time,

It's high summer.

Soft drops

At first

To quench the thirst

Of Protea

And Hyacinth alike.

But then

More persistent

Insistent on its mission

To dress

And cleanse the mountains,

Feed the falling streams,

To rivers,

Faster, more detemined,

Ever to the seas.

Trees bow

So boughs may drink their fill

Village ponds respond

By growing for the day.

City streets

Almost replete,

Take time

To send the grime

From shop facades

In torrents to its drains.

Far distant Lovers

Shed their tears

Their deepest fears

That they will never touch again

And let them fall

To mingle with the rain.

                                                _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  _ _

Owain Glyn