Dryads

If you listen
And you can hear
Rain clatter
Over the town's
Industry,

We are not voices
In your ear musing
But the dull clack
Of another drop
On the metropolis

Whose movements
Mistake art for action,
Twist and follow
So that the mind
Simply does not focus

And everything becomes
Just something else,
Like rain,
Plunking hard
Into gutters.


John Cornwall

If you have any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.

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