A Beseeching of the Raindrops

A BESEECHING OF THE RAINDROPS

Curiously comforting, the sound of rain falling,
of rain falling relentlessly over the roofs,
while I, spurned and ousted, lie listening
to its incessant descent,
the pearly scattering,
consigned to a garret like my dad before me.
Up there somewhere is Coma Berenices,
a galaxy of golden hair looted to illumine
the nucleus of nowhere.
Somewhere my far-flung daughter lies dreaming
beneath the crooked top hats of the chimney stacks.
Angels of indifferent rainfall, I ask that you do not disturb
the sleep of infants; kiss the soil as you descend;
uncork the sky, let soft rain set foot in every suburb,
let the late, slate silver tiles freckle with pillows of moss,
the spongy lichen blister and expand.

Curiously comforting, and yet the rain does not
wash away our iniquities,
clicking its stiletto heels on the skylights
over the slanted angles of the rooftops
the steep diagonals.
But though big raindrops burst on earth
this night of infinitely falling stars
distils in every drop the infant’s dreaming.
You always said you loved the rain.
Take my hands again, dance with me beneath the dripping railway arches,
the slanted angles of the slaty roofs, the fluent guttering,
the shining iron of the underpass, along the coiled catacomb streets,
beside the roots of rainbows, the terraced gardens
where the bronze fox meets the badger to its whisker,
where the hedgepig truckles under his cushion of quills.
In her raiment a princess dances down the starlit toadstool isles,
ignites this night with forgotten fires
and I must meet with her.
If I cannot meet with her, then
let the great flood come, let blind tears efface the sky,
let England drown beneath the rebellion of her waters.