On A Rainy Evening
What do I think of damp and soggy days
When all the mud there is begins to squelch
And squeak like frogs wòunded by a
Plunging branch, when every fallen leaf
Looks just the same, as if each one had fallen
From some giant water-tree, and when the clouds
Simply cannot decide on how to fall: like this,
Like that? Like here or there? Like big or small?
I suppose I liked all this when I was young and free
And when the only sky I knew was hid among the
Puddles on the ground, or when I browned my Friday-
Dress in mud that squelched and squealed and sang
Beneath the green-grooved canvas of my trusty shoe.
But I do not like to think that I have aged, oh no,
Much rather would I think the rain is not as young.
The idea of this poem came to me as I cycled through the Tata Institute on a chilly wet evening, some three and a half years ago. It remains a favourite poem of mine.