It was raining –as it is wont to do
in Autumn. Drenched, in search for refuge
I wandered streetlamp lit Madrid with you
with closed umbrellas. We liked the deluge,
and our hands were warming up each other.
The city quiet started to settle
closing in, shivering – so we smothered
ourselves inside, clinging and dishevelled,
the only open café, laughing when
you spilt your tea and then your lips on mine.
We were laughing still when the drunkards spent
our time, hostages drunk with no wine.
It was raining when I left, early dawn
and raining when I saw you, smiling on.