Rain sweeps down in bursts of sea,
Roads turn to lakes, paths to streams.
Blackbirds take shelter beneath umbrella leaves;
I hear their twitterings float away into a damp distance.
Even the trees hang their heads in wet slumps.
All is damp, all is grey.
Weather for ducks, my mum used to say.
But despite the cold and clammy walk,
Despite the pooling water around my feet,
I know that tomorrow the path will be washed clean.