Rainstorm in Brighton


Harsh, driving rain
Bouncing off glassy pavements
Drenching running legs
Frantic to reach refuge.
Scurrying inside.

Hayden's Mass in Time of War
Competing, thunderously,
With Nature's crescendos.

Will he? Should I? Can we?
Keep time.
Drip! Drip! Drip!
Drops falling, insistently,
On the ancient, flagged Church floor.

Outside, abandoned, the rain-soaked sand
Crumbling yesterday's castles.
Sad-eyed children lick tasteless ice-creams
Forlorn, staring from fly-blown windows
Of cheap hotels,
Wondering, dejectedly:
Does the sun wait, gleefully,
Hiding its mirth behind those ominous, dark clouds
Ready to return only as their Holiday Trains roll away?

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