The sound of rain

The drizzle sets its lullaby on cobbled streets at dusk –
a soft, endless pitter‑patter that curls up in the heart.

Each raindrop, a silver note,
notes played on iron rails,
echoing through the alleys of the city,
turning blue‑faced time to glass.

It whistles from the eaves of the terraced lane,
a murmur that rolls past the watch‑towered garden,
a gentle drum that keeps the old world turning –
the sound of rain for a London lad and lass.

So let the storm parade its silver tongue,
over the bus‑stop, over the cafe,
a hush that comforts the weary mind,
and laces up the night with quiet grace.