pavements are damp

people like towels brought in

off wet dripping lines

or as ducks flapping in packamacs,

 

windows defy gaze under blinds

crying tears with their wares.

 

Mr. Protheroe stares out from his outfitters

at the rain running away with itself.

Damp slate answers back a sky

hewn from hills.

 

There are buses due, themselves

havens of damp, Cerrig y Drudion

is out there under mythical cloud

as the ten twenty from Penrhyndeudraeth

shimmers. Ab - Gwilym in charge of tickets

with his braced legs in black and machine

bore da to Mrs Williams.

 

guest houses are low slung behind lace

no disgrace, names hyphenated,

Chapel breath is strong

lasting weeks at a time

and still comes the rain.