Walking in the Rain
High up on the misty ridge
I lean into the punch of wind,
the cut of horizontal rain.
Over grey-green, restless waves
eiderdowns of sodden cloud unroll,
sagging with the weight of rain.
A wet September Sunday.
The cool, sweet juice of blackberries
picked and eaten in the rain.
On leaf and thorn and fruit
trembling globes of light suspended.
Shiny, fragile pearls of rain.
Such words as these condense
as droplets falling out of cloud
to the rhythm of the rain.
To the rhythm of my steps
through long, wet grass, over hard stone,
these words, falling down like rain.