Rainy Day in January

I

A blue-grey start to the day,
early morning, the wind shaking
the black bare trees, lampposts,
me as I struggle against the rain:
blown about, my umbrella bending.
The little night lights are still on,
the morning taking hours to arrive.
Something sad stirs the seagulls.

II

The rain hits the bench top.
Lots of grey circles
open, widen, fade away.
The water drops and circles grow
and die, faster and heavier.

III

On my face, fine rain,
like slithers of lace,
lay down refreshment.

IV
 
Hundreds of raindrops hanging
like silent bells, their drooping
bellies silver as they catch the light.
Some wobble. One breaks free -
a sperm with its grey tail aiming
for the egg of oblivion below.
Others wobble, another is free.

V

Rain water pools on the tarmac
of platform 7/8 at Wimbledon station:
inky islands of black silk which,
when approached, turn silvery and
suddenly you see the world reflected
upside down, slightly faded, quivering.