There was rain on the day she came here,

there was rain on the day she died,

for the sky’s always much the same, here

where the muttering clouds abide.

There was rain on the day she died, cut

to the bone by the quivering blade.

She had thought she could run and hide, but

there were rules to the game she’d played.

She had thought she could run and hide! How

did she hope to evade their reach?

She had fled to the rain-filled tide; now

she’s a washed-out print on the beach.

And my washed-out prints on the beach, too,

are the only scars that remain

of the cold-blooded tryst that we each knew

was to end in a crimson stain.

There was rain on the day I came here,

there’ll be rain on the day I leave;

for her ghost or my bones, it’s the same fear,

and the clouds offer no reprieve.