Take comfort in the resonant fact
that we are all of us porous.
Precipitation finds its way inside,
no matter the sediment layered above.
Its chilling course parts each grain
without effort, ever seeping through.
Even the promised shelter of your upturned
collar is no match for the cold caller.
Beneath your navy Harrington the fragile
warmth of your skin is sapped by each drop.
Some ethereal force guides these glistening shells
to their mark, regardless of your evasive manoeuvres.
One by one an army of bristling troops gather themselves,
though their cause is blind.
Slowly and then all at once they quiver
and drown by the deathly embrace of the cold caller.
A doorstep finds its way beneath
the rubber sole of your left foot.
The faded white squeaks weakly against
the damp stone, warning you.
Through a decaying lace curtain
an energy-efficient glow permeates.
It seems to reach out to you,
as if to ward away the clammy approach of the cold caller.
Your naked finger rests
upon the worn brass of the doorbell.
Depressed, it primes itself to alert those inside
to your watery presence.
An involuntary shiver releases the hounds,
and you almost turn tail and run.
Glued to the spot you remain,
in her eyes, a cold caller.