"The Rain It Raineth Every Day"
by Norman Garstin








The Rain it Raineth by Tim Veater

To whom the dogs belong?
Who's shadows stain the shiny prom?

And who the woman, who the man,
In brown and black, passing their time
Walking into their future, into our past,
Before the threatening wave at last?

Never to break, Never to move.
Stuck fast to canvas with oily shoes.
A little girl and little maid,
A brolley up but not for shade.

Policeman walks with sodden cape,
Arrested by the artist's swipe.
An empty road, an empty street,
Echoing to those passing feet.

And cries of laughter borne on wind;
Where go they? What destination firm in mind?
Somewhere sure, praps warm and sweet?
In distant houses white and neat?

The hearth; a weeping mother's hug?
A steaming tea in favourite mug?
Or grumpy sergeant at the door?
"Come on man What's thee waitin for?"

White horses whipped towards the strand,
Flip drenching manes all over land.
Whilst loyal kind in shanks stands still,
Head lowered to the greater will.

(And all things wise and wonderful)
Like time, etherial time, caught in the lull.
Janus progeny, when we like he,
Looking forwards, backwards see.

What we view now, the passing scene, 
As we are here, they once have been;
Is set in paint in winter's land,
By magic wave of artist's hand.

So may we gaze and gasp and say
"It truly was a rainy day!"