Listen. The rain is whispering behind

The silence. Secrets chainmail the air

Minutely with silver, sometimes steel,

even platinum when the clouds feel

flush. The sound is metallic; not a

Trembling bell or shivered cymbal,

More like the rustling of foil. Listen….

It’s music now, minimalist, mysterious.

Something not quite invisible

Revealing itself from the heavens.


There’s a veil shimmering my hair

where light has become moisture

as lace. Place your hand on my head

and feel the ephemeral glove wrap

itself around your fingers like touch.


No tin roof cacophony here. No buffalo

Herd stampede to match the thunder.

Not even the patter of tiny feet or

Drumming of fingertips. No splatter

As coagulants burst, no dancing on

Tropical leaves, no incessant chattering

Or slippery gossiping of tyre on tarmac.

No angular sheeting or curtaining

when rain turns black against a mute

horizon. No hailstones boasting their

flint followed by apologetic muttering.

Not even the indistinct murmur of gutters

Complaining. Just gossamer drizzle falling

Finer than silk behind its own metaphor.


How to photograph this!? Still, I suppose a poem is a start at visualising the images.