Pearl-drops hang on branches; the sky is grey,

Ringlets on the pond whipped by ruthless rain.

Dull mirror like reflects the paved pathway,

With thirsty throat gurgles the greedy drain.

Umbrellas scurry on the wet pavements,

Missing each other by a breadth of hair.

Like coins, in mad fruit machine payments,

Cascade the cool water through the damp air.

Your mood is almost as grey as the sky,

You wish only to see the sun again,

You would like to cry and do not know why,

Your wish for some warmth seem to be in vain.

You feel like screaming… There’s no need to shout…

Maybe if you smile the sun will come out…

© P. J. Oszmann (2009)

© Illustration created in Photoshop from an original digital photograph.