The same rain story

It is still raining. I am beginning to wonder if it ever wasn’t.
If there was a less shiny day once when I saw a man
carrying an umbrella and barked with laughter?

I think you know sun that we run to you
as if you’re the last train home.

Sat in a bus shelter with puddles up to my legs
I think you like to spin us like sugar
to note how attentive the deckchair is to your turns
like us to face you like a teacher talking.

I will say you feed me myths
If you tell me again that people pray
for this - my everlasting rain.

If I hadn’t spent so long already
moving the memories of buckets
I would be used to the snails stopping

every time they see me,
this is not a raid I keep telling them,
and they carry on like the newly released.