House sits within its moat of rain water where the salamander lives and running grass green and the cowshed where the toad swims under the door and the veil of raindrops dripping from the eaves dripping in the attic and inside the windows and the places where it bubbles up through the floor.
House sits full of the smell of water cool and cold and we listen to the patter on glass the rattle down chimneys feel the stones slip into some other world of water and watery things.
Night is deep and well-dark ditch-full of rain and the crow wind and when the light returns in the grass running down the green path water-running will be the ragged ghostly procession of white agaric water-gorged and tasteless.
When there is no evening light, no dusk-mote thickened air, no gentle slide from gold to blackest night and only falling grey and greyer, ware the dark mouths mouthing darkest words, water-sucking mud beneath the feet, feathered ruffled roosting with the birds pouring loud in ditch streams flowing fleet. What is it takes the silver, grinds the dust of stars and planets, scatters ashes wide? In this sunless sea-gloom serpents must uncoil in gutters where the pike fish hide, as I drag fingers down the chilly pane, stare dull-eyed through sky horse’s streaming mane.
I hear you rolling through the ocean sky hissing like the incoming tide through the poplars boughs dancing like kelp in the current and I hear you pass over roar dwindled to pattering of drops pebbles rolling in the backwash.
Silence follows trawling clouds in the blue as the season shifts changes gear slipping into the cooling time and the dimming of the light. We sigh in eternal dissatisfaction.