THOSE WHO FIGHT IN THE RAIN

A storm it broods and hangs above the land
Betrays and lays its wrath on all alive.
Some pause, some hide, grabbing, hoarding, clean hands
While others flea to their palace to thrive.

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Some count the clouds, the piles, the coins, the dead
While others stare into mirrors blindly
Like rats crawling below, gnawing the thread.
Most just stay inside waiting peace kindly.

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Sacred are the few who fight in the rain
Umbrellas and buckets, lifting, pouring
Disregard for their wet, their cold, their bane
Bailing the flood, like lightning rods soaring.

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So when the sky opens restoring its light
Their places in blue and gold, noble and bright.