Sunday

The Rain wakes me;
Pushing open my curtains,
Splashing into my dreams.

I squirm and try to shut it out,
But little puddles
Have already gathered.

I have to open my eyes
To the frosty light,
The unremitting spatter.

I find I like this rain;
This thick, honest rain,
Not petty drizzle.

Shaking the dream
Out of my ears,
I listen, straining.

There they are, the Church bells,
A cheery sound
I have always liked.

But such an irony,
That these jovial summons
Lure you to such solemn gates.

To a place where you must listen;
You must think,
And feel remorse.

I do not go, sinner that I am.
And this provokes guilt
In itself.

How dare I enjoy
The invitation,
But rudely decline?

The last chime dies away,
And the wind howls,
Lonely now.

The rain keeps falling,
Forming puddles
In my mind.