The rain, it rains like rainy rain,
The time, it ticks so slow.
It soaks the garden, soaks the lane,
It soaks the overflow
Won’t it ever shine again ?
Won’t it ever go ?
We curse these clouds we undergo,
We curse this ever-rain;
But still the gullies rush and flow
And wash the boggy lane.
Oh, must the day creep by so slow,
And with so little gain ?
We check the window once again,
We watch the drops that flow.
Perhaps the clouds are bored of rain,
Have somewhere else to go ?
Check the garden, check the lane –
Not too quick. Be slow.
It hasn’t yet begun to slow,
It’s coming hard again.
It should’ve stopped an age ago,
But still we get the rain.
So down to earth the clouds all flow
Upon the roof and lane.
We long to be upon the lane
Where blooms the indigo,
We long the garden to regain
Between the may and sloe.
Instead, the clouds forever reign,
Like icebergs in a floe.
So round and round our thought must flow:
The clouds. The time. The lane.
And like the day, they crawl so slow,
As round they crawl again.
They’re stuck with us, nowhere to go –
And still comes down the rain.
A sestina, whereby the six endwords are repeated each verse in a different order. Tradition also requires a seventh mini-verse, or envoy, to round things off, but I#ve never seen the point.