Rain is the mass of all the nights
That climbing coil their darkness down
To grip the city, crush and swallow,
Gorging on pulp of cog, man, stone.
Rain is the wave of angry song
Strummed out by fingering trees on strings
That ache and slip at the trees’ touch
And snap, chilled, on a bird’s wings.
Rain is the boom of voices raised
To the wind, the grind of locusts in corn,
A bubbled breath, the softened kiss
Of a girl on the brow of her first-born.
Now rain has another image to hold —
White fire falling to freeze the world.
© David Rowbotham