To give back to the rain
what was announced on the rooftops
in whispers, at the end of May –
the rain, a drowsy origin
cradled in the huge bronze
and silver of twisted beech.
Your sounding, not like laughter
on dry streets, nor an obituary
reminiscence, give and take
of battering wind – but slight
drumming on rough graves, midway
from the obscure haze of a lamp.
One take on obscurity in poetry. Another forthcoming.