Rain, Rain.

Where do birds go to that's so important?
When I am watching, waiting for the coming storm,
Through warning blasts that come from foggy waters,
A seagull pitches past and struggles on;
Or one sits on a lamp-post in the sodden dim
And caws at being followed by another three,
Or black and slicing home from tree to tree
Through long-imagined sounds of crash and skim,
Out on a washing line, or berried branch,
Or anywhere but watching, waiting, bored;
Scoring like a symphony's, sky-quavering, ignoring
The chattering train gone by with none on board.

Thomas Clark