rain

rain

rain bud

i’ve listened to rain
since the first days
i remember,
that sense of time
            out of nothing.
watching the embers breathe
back and forth in the coming
dream i’d wake and stab
through the grate.
or face mirrored with cold
against the glass,
trying to see its
glistening track under
the ladder fern,
the pool my father
broke out in a piece of scoria,
            streaming over,
stirring with cloud      
                        decay.
my mother, bent under
the oilskin,
clumsily splitting
more wood.

afterwards i’d walk out
amidst the fruit trees,

sheltered from strong winds
by the hedge, ducking the
clear buds of water
that ran along the twig.

1981

Copyright © 1981 Peter Le Baige.  All Rights Reserved

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