there is a softness
to this,
the third day
the sibilant rain drifts
down,
to blur the world's
definition,
and soften the crust
to a malleable mire.

i sit outside on,
the front verandah ,
in woolen jumper
and watch the horizon
dissapate and the waves
become tired and grey.
after three days,
there is, no fury,
left in them.

the steam, arising from
my cup,
mingles with humid,
misty bretheren
and the birds cry
mournful.

plate, the treefrog,
revels in the rain.
his bass profundo
decrying the need for
waterlove.

all else looks for shelter
in the soft indistinct frame
of three days of rain.