November rain

November Rain

In the damp hush of a London dusk,
rain drifts from the bruised clouds—soft, relentless‑as‑a‑secret.
Each drop is a pale silver shard,
marching southward upon the pavement’s bleak face

and turning metal roofs into shining pantries,
where the wind whispers verses in the gutter’s shadow.

The streetlamps throb with a quiet, amber glow,
and puddles become the world’s reflective pane,
mirroring the ash‑painted sky and perhaps a lost memory.

Footsteps pause at corners where bottles are left open,
and the air tastes of earth and coal smoke, faint and sweet.
The rain tapestries the city in an old‑world lullaby,
a reminder that the gloom is also a song, and the night is its choir.

So let November fall,
for in its gentle, steady descent
love finds a slower, steadier rhythm—
a soft, lingering kiss upon the tongue of the week.