Rainy Day

Making a poem

of rainy days,

I waited behind

the closed window,

observing the clouds’

blear tracks to west,

an endless grey movement,

causing heavy fragrant winds.

A large river of clouds

rolling to the edge

of the horizon,

a deep melody,

deep like water

and moonless nights,

born in obscurity.

And I wait the soaring

hours of light,

to escape on

transparent pathes

from a world of

a  patient born sorrow.

Hope is my friend.

Hope, lend me your hand

and your bark to row away

on the cloudy sea …

I could hardly resist

like a stony island

formed by roughness

and glowing knives.

My bottom is

slowly sinking sand.

Winds rot my thin top,

but I speak to the storms,

a solitary island

on a rainy day.

© Inge Hornisch

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