The Sound of Rain

Ink slurps up a fountain pen

like water gushing down gutters

a dash to inscribe drops on ground.


A new born miner’s persistent speak

to an unknown beat which answers

back, a chorus of exuberant echoes.


This is the forgotten sound of tincan

incantations, of skate across slippery

slate, of harmonic rhythm’s return


Copyrighted by the author


A headline, fresh untainted

news, real and long imagined.


Rain. Drops on the tin bucket.

Birds awake at night. The sound


of fresh falling clarity. Cool

nature breezes in to cast out


doubt and obfuscation. I count

each bell peal until there are


too many. This then is rain

the continuous present


Copyrighted by the author