Waiting for rain My shoulders are taut, sitting on a wooden bench staring at the fields, I realise how much I am straining, willing rain to come. I decide, instead, to listen. Near-in to my body, throat breath, heart-beat I hear so much these days, the do

Waiting for rain


My shoulders are taut,
sitting on a wooden bench
staring at the fields,
I realise how much I am straining,
willing rain to come.
I decide, instead, to listen.

Near-in to my body,
throat breath,
heart-beat I hear so much these days,
the dog’s paw on a gabion
taking careful steps on wires and rocks,
toenails on wood.

At mid-range, birds:
a lark over our fields,
ravens cawing,
ducks dry crop-futtling, silver-eyes in thorns,
small plovers ‘twitting’,
galahs’ wingbeats right overhead.

From a distance
it comes on gently,
​​trickles off roof to tank,
plips a water-level sonar,
wetting us as we sit,
glorious, slow rain.