First Light by Michael Murray

On the first day it rained.
Rain is the leveller, disturbing boundaries,
mixing sky and earth
into this one element —
mud.
 
And on the second day the same,
listlessly the ripening thoughts spoiling,
the cold damp languor stealing-in
like a night of cloud.
 
And on the third again the same.
This must have been when they made
the Northern Quarter:
always waiting, and never called.
 
Another three days of this,
helpless behind steamed windows,
mind in stupor, body in torment;
body in stupor, mind in torment —
I walked out then,
without a coat, and Can you still doubt me?
I called.
 
Didn’t wait for a reply.