March Rain

Prometheus has ordered the fires be put out
and we have lost the landscape to mist.
Elsewhere, Neptune is working a tempest
to drown poor weakling man.
The massive drift of cloud banks over us,
subsuming our role to acquiescence.

How can we have been so blinded
by dull February? Its vacant heart
led us to believe that the wind would not return;
and yet the crippled sailors shall now be more crippled,
older than time's erratic arthritis
that weakens the mind's resolve.

Somewhere out on the moor
someone is getting lost.
The lights of a distant farmstead
shall offer a sliver of hope.
Or are they the eyes of the Beast
drawing them to their ruin?

Or maybe they are part of a dream
that has somehow become solid
and the dreadful downpour around
is a cipher for confusion and pain -
the child has lost its mother,
there is no warmth to protect her
and all this rain is a mere indication
of the state of things to come.