A Poem a Day (596): Rain after eight

 
Rain after eight
 
It follows.
The rain, shy of curve.
Man Ray, the practical dreamer.
 
It crosses continents at will,
speaks without a telephone. No ringtone.
One universal language.
 
A call to tranquil nature to awaken,
leaves to unfurl and draw it in,
while petals seek to shiver out.

The Hierophant blazes through
this bounteous blue with shield aflame,
opens doors. Like a phoenix, he rises.
 
Tears slide from the parting skies
without grief, solitudinal lightness,
rhythmic touches, even strokes.
Slips. Surfaces. Slides sublime.
 
Slithers down an open screen
to seep inside. Misted glass drips,
splattering ethereal words unsaid
in a watery hand.
 
It collides with the soft, circling air,
stills, creeps into the slightest crevice,
wakens whatever it finds inside.
Devours. Coolness driven whistles down
the windowpane.
 
Scattered chords, a light patter of paws
across a tiled, tilting roof.
 
Tyres sweep through the tuneful torrent,
splatter bald cobblestones, create islands
circled by swirling seas.
 
We step back, pausing to breathe in the evening.
The clarity, the sheer fall, the coveted.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 26, 2023