I wrote this one after watching the Blink episode of Doctor Who. It was the hospital scene that drove it; the sound of the rain in that scene just would not leave my head. And now you know as much as I know about this poem.
Until the Rain Stops (the landscape triptych as screenplay)
Behind the petals of white roses, translucent,
softer than voices in the night, moves
the slow, irresolute play of shadows.
The smooth skin of the harbour is a drum,
high tide sounds its hollow rhythms below
a starling’s recursive, grammatical melody.
It is July. On the pond, the new lilies
bloom white and roseate and gold.
Through the leaves of a swaying poplar
and a frail, young birch, the south wind
trails the heavy, sweet fragrance
of a little-leaf linden’s pale-green blossoms.
A sudden finch is a small, bright blur, yellow
above the first wild roses beside the path
at knee-level, their pale, simple petals
delicately contrary watercolours
against an exuberance of green painted
by the broad brush of a fox tail.
The wind has shifted and stiffened,
blows now out of the southwest
and soft clouds smear in the distance,
whisper like wet, dark silk.
A blue heron, wings wide and still, sails
above the harbour, dark kite on an unseen string.
Tomorrow there will be a thunderstorm;
the day drawn and redrawn by heavy rain,
its long lines of longing.
And those who have walked
on still mornings beside roses with petals
of soft, white light—will they move tomorrow
among wilder petals, until the rain stops?