When it rains
I sit beneath
A mountain cherry
And wait for it clear
No wine
No song
No dew-drop tears
I am not the man I was
Sitting here
Watching listening
The grey fades out
Like brushed ink wash
And welcomes back the blue
Smiling
But not overjoyed
I get up from
The cold stone bench
And go to make fresh tea
Time is short
This cup is empty
There is no mountain cherry
J H Martin is from London, England, but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe, and the Americas. For more information, please visit: https://acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com/