Of course it’s raining and how, the world is full of water talk there is nothing else on the radio. Even the moon’s out this evening, looking casual in grey among the clouds and how the light changes in her eyes. On the ground, rain sifts itself, joins itself and parts again. It is so long in the making holding hands for a few moments of fall. Then, good bye and into other arms.
The gurgle as it regroups, finds itself reunited all over the rooftops and then into the tanks. We have caught the rain, but only for a while. It will find its way away from our pipes and drains and channels, it will regrow the river, move the mountain, reach out its long tidal arms to try and embrace the moon. It is the hiss of static. The buzz that means nothing but rain on the wires.
The rain loves gravity, all these chemical force fields that we happily drink down and bring alive as we know it. One long branching. One long making water into us and then dispersing it again. Of course it’s raining. The soil drinks it down, the planet of clouds and radio waves with the moon hovering there like a luminous shadow loving gravity more and more every moment as it bends light through the sea to make the colour blue, then throws that last raindrop into your eye.
We furred at the edges
have forgotten where we each end
in this cocktail of aching sleep and wakening.
There are times
when you wrench yourself from those
dreamless drifts of pure rest
to footfall your way
to the fretting
and I can lie, wakeful for your return.
Often it is my body rising me
the way a wave pulses to the shore
I go to the child, that child who has woken
with no covers, or a dry throat or a terror filled dream.
But have I told you how
I swim in our warmth
and it is like that comfort I can give
returned and returned?
(Concentric circles, a pulse of falling,
the moon’s shadow across bed.)
You are my home and my returner
even when we are pulled awake
here in these small hours.
The time filled day
plasters itself all over the body;
wears it like paper
frayed where it has torn.
There is the sweep of it
like the wind with its overing
and the broom with its hush hush hush
along the floor’s crevices.
Tidal with the moon and never
whiter than when it is
with its whiff of blanket fold
and the curve of it downwards.
It has loomed the blood
felted it with the gentle incessant rub rub
and now so fine thin
rice paper smooth; fragile.
Milked and trembling
the paper sky filaments
are all ready to rest;
Rubs its black fur against the grains of light
that push and push then tumble
but no crash; just gentle call of crickets
that thicken the lines across their voices
until they make that blanket
we might call night.
Night doesn’t answer.
Even when the lids go down and the
cat prowl moon eyes the possibilities
all akimbo from the trembling songs
the brush whisker
that silken paw.