Sun Shower

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Caught in a sun shower,
the girl in my garden
flings five crusts of bread
in wide arcs,
bird gifts,
turns heel,
runs back inside.
Birds and girls,
saturated, singing,
leaping in my garden
like wings of rain.

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In a Chinese Garden

Finally, the erasing hour of the rain.
The garden lost behind a paper screen,
and what returns is never the same.
I have known a vast, bright, burning summer,
reduced to the silence of the listening stones.
The rain thrusts me
into these corners of solitude with a grey palm.
But see how the hydrangeas remain,
and rise like a rebellion of scent and colour,
from the darkened pond.
Blue, through folds of purple, to breathless pink,
they climb, until there is no colour at all,
only this defiant song of insects
that not even the rain could wash away.
For there is nothing in these flowers that
grows despondent, as we sometimes do,
and accepts the finality of water.
Like a breath of infinite pigment,
they leap and dive
in circles of unquenchable joy
without decay,
to the very edge of the garden wall.

Rain lessons

The rain is lonely.

It did not mean to fall.

It was the pointed antennas

of this fortress city

that pierced the dark belly

of the hurt cloud,

and the raindrops

like unready hearts,

descended trembling

with wet sleeves.

Now, so exposed

so awfully mixed up,

they shelter in puddles

and sigh under

the undignified crush

of lorries and bicycles,

and whimper

on steal beams.

The rain is lonely

and unprepared

for this catastrophe.

It seeks to accuse,

but there is no one.

Through the open window

of my room, of my heart,

the rain invites me

down into the street tonight

to witness the sobs of life

bleeding away

into the quiet nets of the sea.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014