The rain pelts down on the tin roof
In rhythmic melody.
The water on the ground is proof
Of what I cannot see.
The white frost mornings look like snow,
And smell of crisp clean air,
Until the cold wind starts to blow,
Which leaves some trees quite bare.
The sky at night is dark and clear
Unless the clouds roll in,
Which makes the rain fall far and near
On many rooves of tin.
When the rain stops you hear the sound
Of the earth breathing rain,
Quenching the thirst of the dry ground,
Until it rains again.
Wet scented air upon the breeze
As wind picks up its speed,
And blows amongst the swaying trees,
Which follow the wind’s lead.
The winter air is never warm,
It’s wet and cold and damp,
And clouds again will start to form,
To cover up the lamp.
Of the whole tree of winter time,
These lines are a splinter,
But I have told you in my rhyme,
The best things of winter.

By Lloyd McLean (1993)

This poem is part of the Seasons of Emotion collection