Poem: Wanker in the sky

Outside the cocoon
Of this meandering train
(to Manchester)
It rains on sheep and fields

Slashing their souls,
on the window pane.
They slide on the glass,
a vertical dance
of droplets with tails.

I think then that they
look like sperm.
Wagging their ends
Swimming and vanishing.
The wanker up above
is, in fact,
responsible for the rain.