The grey-chained city stands sullen as mud,
Torpid and tired, in worn winter rags.
The silver faced puddles watch baggy eyed skies,
And the stone gutter cossets old paper and cans.
A hard, slapping rain bullies rich man and poor
And drives a dank cold through coats and through shoes.
In the gunmetal haze the lights change again
And another dull busload drags on to their homes.
Then, just for a moment, like the smile of a god
A shaft of bright sunlight slashes the clouds,
And lights on the shoulders of a shuffling old man
Who doffs his cap and salutes the dark sky.
Then he pushes his hands deep into his coat
And plods the black pavement back to his room.