Twilight Rain

I can't stop writing about rain - it's kind of the poet's fail-safe. But I try to put an interesting spin on it

Ripples swell on the surface

that once lay still as the waters of the Moon;

undisturbed until the firmament fell.

Rain dashed across the glass

obscures a world darkening

under a cinereous sky,

streaked with the last light of day -

lazuline surrenders to the creeping grey.

But the trees stand motionless,

holding their leaves up

to catch the drops of spilt stratus,

anticipating the rush;

a surge to convulse the green

so marked in the dying light.

The perishing eve submits to twilight,

rainsong ceases in favour of the birds

that unburden their hearts to serenade the night,

hung with a roral chill,

verdant and alive.

They sing in celebration of a world opening up,

and for a day relinquishing its hold

on the present,

slowly falling asleep

in the last embers of a regressing sun.