Rain at Dusk
Rain past my window, bursting into spray
on roof, in guttering. With shining feet
children come in and splash, their voices sweet
in the chill air, fading at last away
when in the houses lights appear, and calls
come twanging from the streets like mandolins,
searching, plaintive as the dark begins
and black triangles stain the nearest walls.
I never hear these voices, the long sweep
of silver gushing to my quiet sill,
but the heart leaps outside all bonds of will,
winding its way to the hulking hills that weep
rivers of tears that channel their grey faces.
Prisoned by the rain and dusk’s sad blue,
in my half-dream of them I could cry too,
grieving for those lost and well-loved places.
E.M. England 1970.