Rain: the winter-summer treaty

Winter has thawed into rain, and summer has started seeping into our silent houses.

Rain: the winter-summer treaty

If the rain can move me to penance,

I must have been walking a very thin line –

Of mistral-watching through frosted glass,

And arid leaves of snow-dry pine.

The house is silent, stripped of cold,

And pigeons’ nests and the midday arc

Of the lazy sun through mosque- and church-domes.

From an old Irish poem, yodels a lark.

Thus, the living dreams come like sorrow

Of mirth disrobing its veil.

Little blonde truants pilgrimage a forest path,

As the evening retires into a hearth of slaughtered quail.

There will be more rain,

Said one torrid hour to the other.

Meanwhile, there is Waugh in one pocket

And woe in another.





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