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.