After the rain: June 2020

Petals scattered

pink and white

across the lawn,

the path –


heads hanging heavy –

and the grass –

green – too green –

and the soft bee buzz

starting up again.

Frank is hosting at dVerse tonight, and we are looking at imagism. Check it out.



You are the rain – ghazal for dVerse III

I love you as the dry earth loves the rain
and your voice is as sweet as the sound of the rain

you have walked through the desert with me
your footsteps as soft as the gentle rain

you have nurtured me like a young tree
that turns its leaves to the touch of the rain

you have come to me through the darkness
the sound of thunder, the driving rain

you have filled the fruit on my boughs
with sweet juices for those who thirst for rain

you have softened the glare of the sun for me
gentled the heat like cooling rain

you have swept me down to the wide ocean
a river filled with the bounteous rain

you have washed the veil from this princess
and left her naked in the summer rain

So, I have given in to the ghazal and gone for the lushly romantic. Each stanza stands alone, I think, and together they create a flower with many petals. Or something like that. This is for the dVerse Form for All project for June, hosted by Gay. I’m linking up to the dVerse Open Link night, too.


She reigns a muddy kingdom
of frogs and slugs and snails,
where rainbows dance in sunbeams
and raindrops dance in pails.

She rides a silver rainhorse
with bells on either rein,
she rides him to the storm clouds
and then rides him back again –

she reigns a muddy kingdom
where puddles catch the skies,
her smile is bright as lightning
and there’s thunder in her eyes.


Rainy days over at dVerse...rainy but upbeat…!

Summer rain – a trimeter for Frank

The rain comes down in rods,
In sheets, in cats and dogs,
We sit and watch the day
Dissolve, get washed away.

Like maidens in a tower
Beseiged by men of power
Dark arrows from the sky
Keep us at home, and dry

And all the dripping leaves
The darkly clouded trees,
The raindrops on the glass,
The mud be-spattered grass

Are things that give rain joy,
She treats them as a toy –
She’d play with us, no doubt,
If we went running out

And jumped and danced in mud
And laughed at the small flood
That tumbles down the lane
And sings a song of rain.


Te TUM te TUM te TUM. A trimeter for Frank, who is hosting MTB at dVerse. For my American readers – this is what happens in England in the summer. Ah, well, we make the most of it. In fact, when I went to tag this, “summer rain” was already a tag, so it’s obviously a common theme for me!

Spring in the park: Tritana for Jane Dougherty

I saw them as I hurried through my day –
Too much in love to notice any rain –
Framed in the springtime blossoms, pink and white

I saw her some time later, veiled in white,
Friends gathered round to share their wedding day
Laughing together, standing in the rain

I sometimes find I think of them, that day,
Sweet-scented jasmine crowning them in white:
I hope that they’re still laughing in the rain.

On days that rain, white jasmine gives most scent.

This is for Jane Dougherty’s poetry challenge. It’s a tritana, with repeating end words in a pattern: 123, 312, 132, and then a final line with all the end words in order. Another lovely picture from Jane, too: Cornoyer’s Early Spring in Central Park. 


Abandon – for Jane Dougherty

We weren’t the only people who left their homes. I just think Mum felt it even more than most. The Mill wasn’t just a home to her, it was a dream. Mum and Dad had left Bristol when the electricity stopped working, moved into a (wind powered) mill and planned to bring us up there.

The problem was the rain. Seven years on, and there was nothing to grind – no crops – the topsoil all washed away, and flooding getting worse every year. Soon people started leaving, moving north – and then that trickle of people became a flood itself.

Then the Government announced over the radio that it was going to stop doing supply drops. There were too few of us. That was the end. We packed what we could carry and started to walk out.

I think we were all crying a bit, and then Mum suddenly started shouting at Dad, as if it was his fault. He just looked shocked. He’d been a Recycler all his life. All this warming and weather stuff – it just wasn’t his fault.

And then Mum turned and started walking back to the Mill.

So that’s my last memory of her, and the Mill. Mum standing there, waist deep in water, now; tears rolling down her face, holding her useless umbrella. Watching us leave.

Jane Dougherty offers this painting by Henri Rousseau, and the word “abandon”.1024px-Henri_Rousseau_-_Un_matin_de_pluie