Gray City

When it rains it rains so slowly,
In the city where I'm from.
-- Turin Brakes, "Rain City"

Dusk comes easily enough,
no red nor yellow to chase off the horizon.
Muted colours like white noise implode,
overflowed with drops immaterialized.

In my mind, the words he sang:
"It's raining on Sunday morning..."

King of melancholy, child of gloom!
Where can I find salvation for us both?


Evenings like this I get unquiet,
when beneath the black is not clear distant sky.
Never relied on the moon for light,
but space feels bitter when stars too hide.

In my mind, the song he wrote:
"Sparkling gems are flooding the streets..."

Lyra, Sagitta, Cygnus, Aquila!
When may I delight upon your radiance?


Cold it might be when the waters fall,
chilling all the more when they linger.

My heart still ponders the soulful refrain:
"It's raining on--"