Pin-pricks of water trickle down her skin
Segwaying follicles and frolicking
In icy sledge-tracks of the night.
Soggy feet look forward to
Extrapolating pesky shoes.
Coat carries hitchhikers inside
But only on its surface, and, besides
They’ll soak into the fabric, then subside.
And it might not rain again.
Tomorrow it is sunny. In Paris there is snow.
But the cycle’s sick
And there’s nothing that is
On this porous ground
On this fair, wet ground
Ever the same thing
Twice
Beyond, night.
Claire Marie Watt, Author 