Many are the droplets that bead upon the windows pane.
As I look beyond the misted glass at the slowly falling rain.

Low hung wisps of white race upon the grey-est sky.
And puddles form with unheard splash before captivated eye.

The ground is damp and made sodden by the ever steady flow.
And so to now runs a stream that follows where kerb bids it to go.

Leaves upon trees seem now burdened by drops so hard to bear.
Made to shed their cargo by the motions of puff of dampened air.

A distant roll of thunder to accompany the patter on roofs tin.
A symphony by nature heard, whilst warm and dry within.

I look on as melancholy witness through drizzles on the glass.
Melancholy not through rain, but rather, from knowing it will pass.