All day it has rained, rain
lashing Connacht Street
running down the window where I sit
waiting for word of you, listening
to the downpipes gurgle
tattoo of raindrops on the glass
a symphony of weeping, but from you
only silence.

The weather slowly clears,
the evening post
brings an envelope from Spain,
its paper damp, its postmark
blurred as if by tears.
I sit in the park reading
your words under the dripping sycamores
thinking of you in the distant south
as the puddled streets dry in the evening sun.