SLOANE SQUARE; RAIN

From the steps of the theatre
The square slides away,
Powdered with traffic,
In the grey
Of the hot weeping evening.

The trees sob exhaustion,
Release from the drought
Of dust-smothered languor
Tries to shout,
But chokes to a whisper.

The magic of Chelsea
Has scented the night
With freedom and passion.
Out of sight
The river lies dreaming.