November Rain

Walking to the car, the rain,
attacking with the density of schoolboy machine-gun fire
is cold.
Marshalled by a cunning wind
shooting wet bullets in every direction:
inside my collar,
through my trousers,
and, using the very effective tactic of the deep puddle,
over the top of my shoes
overwhelming my socks
and utterly subjugating my feet,
I am cold,
so I run.

The windscreen wipers
knock regularly
like a cat on the outside
that's lost its voice.

Travelling slowly
on the left
in the careful traffic wary of slipping,
I hit regular puddles
splashing in the same time
as empty radio music.
I'm unable to avoid this nervous water
and any unfortunate pedestrians walking by,
creating tsunamis
so broad and high
that small life held above the curb
must long ago have cursed its foolish instinct
or love cold water
and to be soaked in mud
released by washed away grass.

Travelling at speed
the rain sounds persistent
like a quarry of Hollywood prisoners
at work
a thousand million women
in high pitched shoes
shopping in a stone square.

This rain makes me jealous
of those wintering in the sun
forgetting cold rain and snow,
except, perhaps,
as something frightening from childhood,
unreal passages in novels,
surreal photos on Christmas cards.