Night Rain
I sleep with the quarterlight
half open, tipped
like a questing lip
into the dark.
Night rain is falling
and the talk
is all of transformation:
black on black in threads
and swatches, gravity diamonds
heading south down window
panes; the air itself
partitioned into beads
and space. Fluctuation, shift –
this parcel of earth self-
ministers, self-heals. And I
bear witness whilst below
my body ticks backwards
like a novelty clock –
new times, new intervals,
deep secret bells and
slipping gears. Yes,
just outside, a skin
and filament away,
the heft of falling rain
in space, against
the leaves and on
the running earth
is like breathing.
by Dick Jones
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Categories: Making Sense
I can’t think of any adequate words to leave in appreciation for this poem so I’ll just leave an eloquent silence.
I loved the opening stanza with that window ‘tipped / like a questing lip’ – so subtly suggestive. The poem itself really conjures that time before we sleep when so much of the world is still awake, humming away to itself.