How mobile is the bed on these

nights of gesticulating trees

when the rain clatters fast,

the tin-toy rain with dapper hoof

trotting upon an endless roof,

traveling into the past.

Upon old roads the steeds of rain

Slip and slow down and speed again

through many a tangled year;

but they can never reach the last

dip at the bottom of the past

because the sun is there.