The Colour of Water

Rain falling, day after day,
as if trying to clean off
our permanent stains,
but all it does is discolour
this well-worn shirt,
and wash the memory
of all the passing seasons
from the walls.
This is not summer
nor autumn nor winter:
sometimes I recognize myself,
then forget.
Maybe after so much rain
all colour will be washed out
and my shirt then be the colour of water.