Rain soaked trains crawl thankfully
Into their subterranean sanctuary
As hundreds of shoppers, commuters
And cross country travellers wait
In the beating heart of Birmingham,
Glad not to be caught in the
Storms of a Vivaldi summer.

Layer after layer of clouds
Mimic an early winter dusk
And make me disbelieve that
This is really August, and that
Autumn is still to come.

The rain heavy foliage is still
Green, and some of the harvest
Still waits to be gathered,
But T shirts and summer dresses
Seem to jar with the grey horizon
Hiding under a leaden sky.

My clothes do not change with
The seasons, though.
I will look the same in January,
When by now the Sun would be
Hiding below the horizon, and
I will look the same when
The Sun is left naked to face
The world beyond its vapour shield.

And I will probably look the same
Until the relentless march of
The years changes my hair and skin.
The world will probably
Look the same too, decaying
Invisibly slowly as the years
Dull the sheen of newness and
Replace it with the coarseness
Of careworn age.

08/12/2004

Posted on 08/17/2004
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