The Melancholy of Rain
The bridge at the park is deep to its arches,
unclear the waters churned to movement.
Rain has become that ‘thing’, a beast
of intelligence, and we cannot take our
departure from it. Fields are sapped, sopped
and stand mired and stagnant. Trees hang
melancholy, and all the week long, both day
and night, the earth is punctured.
drop. drop. drop.
I hesitate to linger long in this wet. The air
clings soaked. To breathe it is to drown in it.
Felled trees make no crash as they fall
to ground, the axe no chop or splice, leaves
set themselves in quagmires where we step,
and smoke rises in untidy, lost clouds. Tardy,
my thoughts unhinged by rain, forever rain,
streaked and leadened on this windowpane.
And I smile. Wave. My neighbour walks her
young children to school, all dressed in rain.
Found and inspired from text in Bleak House by
Charles Dickens. Recollections of January 1991, Bletchingly.