The Wind and Rain

I remember her name.
Like a stray word
in an old song.

It hangs there for a
moment before heading
to another rhyme.

And the weeks become days.
And they in turn count
down the hours to midnight.

The time for magic spells
and lazer light.
Fresh beams shining-in
through broken windows.

And the wind blows:

Rattling the tin roof
that tops our modest room.
Keeps the rain out
and nothing much else.

Each drop represents a life.
A chorus of humanity,
roaring at the wall.

For there is no escape.
From the wind, the rain
and the long days.