Contemplate the rain, this fleeting season,
changes I can do nothing about.
Sitting, watching, listening; the hanging drops
on vacant washing lines and leaves,
all testimony to nature,
that the laws of men may come and go,
yet eternal truths stand starkly before us:
Our choice to ignore.
The harder I try the less I get in return.
But the gentle rush of rain brings it back,
the raucous calls of crows
sitting in out in shedding trees;
the clutter of my mind
stands between what is me
and my self.
Copyright Francis Barker 2020