The daily bread,
Given on this day,
Cast in poppies
And blooming blackberry corners,
Everything sprawled and covered.
.
Just over the hill,
Nights feed on themselves:
Fickle contests of fading light.
Here, the din of thrush,
Trickles of water,
And a last, hushing turn of leaves
On a vanishing breeze,
Where doors open to the old memories
Of dusty roads, watermelon mornings and
The easiness riding along.
.
One last whisper of rain,
Faint, barely promised,
Never seen.
That’s it.
The faithful tenancy of days has arrived.
Shaken Rain 