Down poured the rain; the closed window streamed
With its cold tears; leaden hung the leaves
With a load of rain, heavier than grief;
And the white trumpets of bindweed flowers, the open
Trumpets of joy and summer were splashed with rain,
Stained like the faces of children scattered with tears.
There was no word, you rose and walked away,
And all I saw were the pale heart-shaped flowers,
And the rain falling, more silently than tears.
Margaret Stanley-Wrench
