***
The windows were tearing up
From the tiresome rain,
The trees in the landscape
Shadowed themselves in a grey haze.
Clouds, jostling aimlessly,
Swept from the north-west,
Dragging the rain’s liquid hems
Along the tousled grass.
The wind whistled through roof tiles,
And it made hands turn red.
The village was there,
Standing undressed.
The silence was broken
Only by ringing of bells
And the lowing of blue cows.
Burdock guarded ravines.
Inside the villagers’ homes,
Behind the muslin drapes,
Lime blossom dried
In the crib of a window shelf.
In the kitchen, steam was rising
Right to the ceiling plane,
And amidst this mist, the villagers
sipped tea
With slices of buckwheat cake.
The simplest of motifs –
In the outskirts of a hamlet,
A fence like a skirt
Suddenly catches the rainbow,
The gate, made of crooked poles,
Is seen almost as Roman propylon,
Whilst the road from home to the forest
Seems like a path into a new sphere…
The windows stopped tearing up,
They became clear.
