The macadam shimmers and slides
like oil in a hot spoon
as drops from the tap in the sky
collide into echoes
forming momentary crowns
of iridescent splash
on the surface
of murky transparency.
The Sun’s light seeps
through the soggy clouds:
paints all beneath it
in a shade of mud
and old stone.
The air carries no sound
but the splittering splatter
of thinning rain.
The grass moves its shade:
from the dark green of pine
to that of drying moss,
until the ground is painted
with a green that shines yellow
and shouts life.
The Sun is unhindered
and the leaves,
horizontal again,
stand to catch her smile.
Warm wetness hangs alone
filling the air incompletely.
Then, a sound:
a single note swims
through Dutch flowers
and under the chin
of a sheltering sparrow;
the throat is tickled
and giggles forth a new sound.
The two together, now,
glide and drift
from hedge to bush:
pulling a train of sweet timbre,
unbroken by human railings.
Now the air is complete,
and the light from above
jumps up and down
on the sparkling surface
of steady-drifting puddles:
a jubilant dance
to the melodies of the unseen
embowered in the bushes.
