After the Rain
The hillside veined with white,
forgotten rain rushes to complete its circuit.
I track the furrows carved dark by all that came before.
Today the horizon is knife-sharp against sunlight,
a boundary line –
an above and below.
Yet early this morning the clouds lay low—
huddled so thickly in the glen
that I had to take the landscape on trust.
Now, only a few tufts remain—
a small dance in the jagged firs
as fleeting as the steam from my morning tea.
Yet they are a reminder, perhaps,
that there is no line after all.
The water streaming by the hut
will rain down on another roof.
Some other dusk,
someone will sit, looking up
to track the plane’s glint across the sky.
Or a stream of light from a rip in the clouds
not a searchlight
but a spotlight—
to show us that whatever we’re seeking
has already been found.