This Rain.(Poem)

 
THIS RAIN 
 
   is pricking air 
   like needles stitching linen; 
   is dripping from the felted flanks of horses 
   and overflowing drainpipes 
   that have lost the knack. 
   The crests of pigeons are battened down 
   and thornbills peer from bushes 
   through colourless curtains. 
   A wet nothing, 
   it becomes a sterner sound on iron roof, 
   on rubber boots and driza-bones. 
   Old codgers rub sore joints and look for liniment. 
 
   Ganged up with a wind, the rain insists: 
   umbrellas must cave in 
   and ...