The man in the raincoat tuts and mutters
stares at he puddles that form in the street
that splash up upon his cold angry feet
from the gathering streams that flow in the gutters

Tomorrow s a time like far away
and memory a knife like ice
and hope a sun to sink again
when London winter clips the skin

He turns again the pavement then
spins up glaring like a grimace
and thinking of some fonder place
he ascends the creaking stairs to the kitchen

Water boiled for tea and heat
he hates the furniture and tends
to wait for some fair-weather friend
the window rataplans with wind and wet.

Murdering a cigarette
in the saucer filled with ends
They say that God is always good
so howcome  it rain on weekends ?

Copyright London 1990