All morning high up on the eaves Above your window A dove kept cooing.
Like shirtsleeves The boughs seemed frayed.
It drizzled.
Clouds came low to raid The dusty marketplace.
My anguish on a peddlar's tray They rocked;
I was afraid.
I begged the clouds that they should stop.
It seemed that they could hear me.
Dawn was as grey as in the shrub Grey prisoners' angry murmur.
I pleaded with them to bring near The hour when I would hear Tidbits of shattered songs And your wash-basin's roar and splash Like mountain torrents' headlong rush,
The heat of cheek and brow On glass as hot as ice and on The pier-glass table flow.
My plea could not be heard on high Because the clouds Talked much too loud Behind their flag in powdered quiet Wet like a heavy army coat,
Like threshed sheaves' dusty rub-a-dub Or like a quarrel in the shrub.
I pleaded with them- Don't torment me!
I can't sleep.
But-it was drizzling; dragging feet,
The clouds marched down the dusty street Like recruits from the village in the morning.
They dragged themselves along An hour or an age,
Like prisoners of war,
Or like the dying wheeze: "Nurse please,
Some water."
