Driving Channel Rains

(a quatern)    
Still slickly wet with hard night’s blust’ and pound,    
The sheets that move to find them wetter still,    
Seem wasted in their unrelent, confound,    
That rise for more and wetter morning spill.    
   
In gales of longer thrust, with caution lost,    
Still slickly wet with hard night’s blust’ and pound,    
How sweet the motion finds in sheen and gloss,    
The barely held resist, that sought rebound.    
   
With hands tight clutch, the new contest profound,    
Of closer skills that ever seek to break,    
Still slickly wet with hard night’s blust’ and pound,  
Those lines between; those reasoned thoughts’ forsake.    
   
The moment comes with unexpected rush,
In sweeps that blind the eye, in joy’s astound.    
Like waves, they move, to quell in morning’s flush    
Still slickly wet with hard night’s blust’ and pound.