Rains on Monday’s

The trees wept, spilling tears of yellowish green,

The wind cold harsh and blowing, the day haggard and mean.

Morning just born, the day yet to be written,

The skies spoke forlorn, he yearned to be smitten.

Another day, a bit more thunder,

A few more hours, a few more stumbles.

The radio sang in that familiar tone,

Forcing a smile, he felt yet still so alone.

So trees can cry and skies can speak,

As life moves along, through yet another lonely week.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009