trout

Only Part of the Rain

David Gregory

Showers, forecast after the event;
a stumbling, spilling from the
stone bowl of the sky.

A gift of inside hours
to watch, and watch the writing come.

Across the pencilled landscape,
a charcoal smudge of rain
becomes a clicking as of hail,
small claws on a tin roof
as you type, ethereal
in the screens glow,
resurrecting the never dead
who get a line of life,
a fate of bookshelves,
a killing of critics.

On days like this
the queue of souls
is visible in the hills.

They come grey across the water.

They slide towards the house.

There is a fall of words.