by Hazem Tagiuri

The rain falls soft
after a hard weekend.

Monday murmurs into life,
teasing its way,
more like night's early hours
than a fresh working week.

You watch the crow, poised
within a trinity of trees
on the damp green,
meditating amongst drops.

You pass the tabby cat
in the doorway,
shrinking back onto hind legs,
a concertina of fur.

These seem like omens,
though, strangely,
not of ill will.

For this rain falls like the calm
that follows chaos;
like a fast after the feast.