When the moon is out

A stingy rain drifts through the empty street,
Not really worth her effort, obviously –
With upturned nose she goes on careful feet,
A finicky old spinster, bound to be

Insulted by the shabbiness she sees.
For her no comfort of near worn-out shoes,
No dirty make-up of a road at ease
Where careless gutters play a borrowed blues

And last year's leaves still lie against the kerb;
She will not look at what goes on inside
But hurries on for fear it might disturb
Her equanimity, her poise, her pride...

When she's gone by a silver light comes out
And Mr Moonlight follows in her wake.
He knows enough to smile, and look about
Indulgently at what the rain can't take.