The first rains of winter,

gurgling gutters,

galoshes sloshing home from school

and sailing wooden boats

in muddy pools –

the swollen creek

rushing its treasure

from the hills,

old tennis balls

and paper picnic plates,

rags caught on twigs

like coloured flags

and broken crates –

now, as the long hot summer ends,

the raindrops grow

from a patter to a roar –

and you and I lie talking

of how simple life was then

and wonder why we seldom see

a wooden boat

or hear the sloshing of galoshes

any more....