The rusted water puddled in places, and where it puddled it dried into drifts. Sweeps of muddled red dirt from far-off distant deserts lay on every pavement, pooled between the cobblestones, gathered on windowsills and clung to window glass. It haunted the city for weeks, like the echoed calls of phantom desert dogs, prowling with the dry.
Tag: rain
Listening Meditation.
Birds overhead and the rain sweeping violently over the roof in sprays snatched by the winds and torn away then lashed on the rooftops again. Birds fly over giggling and calling as they pass. The cat doesn’t like it. Meows a startled birdish chirrup and jogs over to me. In the left ear gas burning in muted and droning roar. To the right the rain dashed on the window glass spittered closer than the swirling roar inside the walls beneath the ceiling. Birds call overhead again these screeching and squarked calls bickering as they go. Now footsteps in another house’s hallway (though there’s nobody home) thumping they vibrate through the floorboards and rumble in the floors. No voices only the birds calling and bickering and giggling as they go.
Weather Turning.
The wisteria had completely died away for the winter and was now just a mess of bare, stick-like tendrils grasping to the house. But other flowers had been more stubborn – the roses were still bravely opening new flirtatious buds into the cold and the lavender trees, neat and thick, stood staunchly. The summer-dried and now rain-soaked leaves smelt like French fields, sun-drenched and stretching out flat beneath a low, blue sky. It seemed some hasty gardener had been through the bushes, for the path was strewn with freshly clipped lavender branches and scattered flower-heads. They and the cut ends of the tree’s branches were leaking fragrance into the air and infusing the raindrops with oil. The rain broke-up the air willy-nilly so that I caught the scent only in quick snatches before it was washed or wind-blown away. As I walked down the path the cat-scratches on the backs of my hands brushed against the bristle-like dead-heads and stung, risen and puffed, in fine slivers of pink through almost translucent skin.
Rain Landing.
Land on head-tops caught uncovered.
Land on lips and tongues stuck-out.
Trains of Thought.
as another train passes outside
its rumbling vibrates the floor
pouring its energy
into my feet
into my spine
whispers
the city breathes
as another train passes outside
pouring the sorrowful
onto the streets
rumbles
pouring its energy
into my feet
into my spine
and in the city’s breathless silence
the craw of a crow
the ugly morning shriek of cockatoos
soaring
from the tall gums that line the tracks
mast and sails (the shops are ships)
as another train passes outside
whispers
into my feet
into my spine
as another train passes outside
echoes long down the cutting
carries ghosts of memory
flitting past
past
past
as another train passes outside
and thoughts are scattered
like wildflower seeds
and another train passes
diffused
like the broken ripple of water
after a ship has passed through
glinting in the sunlight
as another train passes outside
and light rain-drops titter at the windows
chuckling at the tipsy-pink rose glass
and the rain falls more steadily now
drenching
grows louder
not patter but pour
and a train passes
muffled
whispers
the city weeps
sweeps the dirt from its gutters
runs rivers
ripples down the rose-glass window panes
and a train passes
rumbles
and groans
the city grumbles
and shrieks the ugly shriek of morning cockatoos
and another train passes
whispers
the city breathes
once lulled
now lush
the rain sweeps across the rooftops
runs rivers
down the drain-pipes
tips tips tips
drips
down the chimney-pots
where there’s no wood-smoke
on a wednesday
Magical: Day One 