Rain running writhing, turning round and round.
Flow so smooth across the line, sweet little pods of impermanence.
Six lines of wire, startled green by the downpour.
Feeling for the while alive, no longer black with electricity.
So direct, so down, so rough does the rain fall.
Outcast from the storm up North,
it bangs down
on the roofs of Sydney
making her streets sound like fresh creeks.
Babbling brooks with stories to tell.