stonegate, york

the rain streams, shining in grey gullies.
city cobbles into wet,... tiny street
darkly a-drip.
Huddled in doorways, doused figures hunch tight,
stained birds flapping umbrellas.
Water rattles windows, gurgles, whines.
We flock, miserable, jostling for corners
while the pavement runs and mutters.
Then, from where, the shocked air
streams pure flute...
colours spin rich and fine
waving down air, winding
the wet wind,
vanishing into the puddled night
like smoke.