The sun stuck in its cloud sack
Can do nothing for us riverfolk
We make our small adjustments
Armor of plastic, black sheeting
Glistening onyx in the mizzle
The holey boot wishes it wasn't
And squelches its little misery
Only the crowd of crows seem happy
Fizzing in their old dark
For a short while, the beauty of snow
Then for longer, long arrows of rain
Driven into the street's bursting belly
That scatter everything that floats
Me included,
Sodden paper on a Thames sea
