poetry diary

Rising gently like the sun,
a quiet murmur amongst leaves;
unlike the wind, somehow
digital, and wet?

And from the road a soft squashed,
receding, sound of moving wheels
escaping unseen, but
serious and set.

Then, through rising consciousness
a harder, wetter, foreground brings
the interrupted dream
of a rivulet.

I draw back the bathroom blind,
predicting summer rain, and find
quiet satisfaction –
I can listen, yet.

*********

I awoke to light rain this morning.