I thought rain was only this blue in picture books.
Out there the mountains are a rough sea rolling,
Breaking over each other,
Tossing the light of a distant house between them.
The road is chalked-marked, the day seems to linger.
A tree sticks out like a sooty spider web,
Hedgerows become charcoal lines on green sugar paper,
Tufts of weed are smudgy finger marks.
The trees in a nearby wood rise and fall
And climb like the silhouette of a city, here a castle there a church.
The evening wears a gown of indigo velvet,
A solitary car tinkles briefly in the distance.