Water

Water is probably alive.
I watch it, too unhappy here
Descending from the atmosphere
To fall against itself and writhe
Through steaming London.

I'm sure it can't have chosen,
If it gets to choose, to settle down
In such a loud forgetful town,
Cursed at by the coughing crowds,
Abandoned by the dying clouds.

Better to burst as fresh salt spray
On San Francisco's golden bay,
Or nurture nameless flowers for
The jungle's preening herbivores.
Still, I'm sure it'll get the chance,
Evaporate, and start to dance.