Swansea Rain

Oh, the rain! The rain! The rain it poureth,
and the gloom of the city see how it soareth!
Silent voices of the windscreen wipers,
in the swish of their blades, are like droning pipers,

while afloat on downpour, on its vapour,
high above every street, for a swim and caper,
swans go gliding, have no need of ocean
or a river in spate, just a storm’s commotion:

there the people stooped with their umbrellas,
they’ve no sociable spirit, no time for fellas,
want a place of comfort, place of dryness,
and their surge for a refuge abandons shyness,

but the buildings stare and lean with greyness,
seem to feel with the people a sort of sameness,
wish cessation to the gusting raining
though the sky, says appearance, dislikes complaining –

there’s no smile in clouds, rejecting sunlight,
who believe that a rain-burst’s a kind of bunfight,
unaware that Swansea prays a yearning
that the rain will disperse, see the sun returning.