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.