Following the Rain

A light drizzle sweeps the hill

in a bleak, grey curtain;

brushing the hills

like an embittered artist.

Ferns droop

with an air of dejection,

heavy with their burden of moisture.

A determined mountaineer

reaching for the heavens,

the shower climbs

on its wet odyssey

over the rise where the buzzard sits

on his skeletal watch post.

A grim sentinel grounded,

always watching.

Then down, plunging

through the deep woods;

a tangled, knotted

metropolis of roots

where the fox waits

with jaws like a gin trap,

salivating with the memory

of kills gone by.

 

Richard Rintoul