Rainy Days

During those wet, wild wind days
I would dream for hours
cosset on the window seat:
replete with melancholy, hoping for the sun.
But when the rain had run
laugh at my folly for feigning false tears.

Those childhood fears of boredom,
the thralldom of the silent wait for sweeter climes.

The clock chimes three.
My reverie is broken …
A trinity of remembrance: Faith, Hope
and grey sea days.

With time it is the latter
which most often holds me.
Is its matter the charity of my growing?