by Grace Campbell

the rain saps the world of colour
compare it to the fretful hands of children,
torrential piano scales; to a silver veil.
streets waltz to the deserted seawall.
he touches her arm. a surfeit of tenderness;
rhymes “river” with “forever.”
this gospel of waterweed and broken glass.

the swing park creaks, water glazed
the river green and glutted, robbing
corroded banks of earth. I have followed
the river, seen it empty out into a saltwater
estuary, beneath leaves like arrow tips
or green lozenges shuddering under the
violence of the downpour. At the land’s
frayed edge two tides run into each other
again across the mudflats. I stood like
a footnote to the sea.

above, the rain falls for miles through
the night to strike the roof of your house.
across the sea the same sound will recall
the surge of the north; a skirt of rain-washed rock
A story ceaselessly uttering itself; that
finds you again on the earth’s other curve
water-born sons and daughters of the world.