Rain Wolf
Every day the old man walks and talks with his dog
and today’s topic is the smell of the rain.
She sniffs the air to prepare for this time.
On some rainy days they wait and watch
and look at the dropping rain like a child
examining drips, transfixed in the moment.
One day, the lakes ran dry, and the moment
it rained his senses were heightened – wolf-like,
acutely aware. He recalled as a child
he raced outside, his face to the rain,
his clothes were soaking, more joyous than to watch
inside in the dry. And now, this time,
he puts on his waterproof coat, this time,
with hood drawn tight to protect from the moment
the rain arrives on the wind. He watches
bubbles on little rivers, and his dog
licks water straight from the road. The rain
is thick and cold, but his inner child
is making mud like he made as a child
to channel the rainwater until such time
it overtops the dam. In the rain
they walk on through the wet woods. In a moment
he sees a bullfinch and he says to his dog,
“just look at that red!” – she says, “watching
red, is the smell of the rain”. He watches
where in a stream he stood as a child
who hunted for fish in pools, while a wolf
was delving in leaves, and he thought of the time
he looked and studied with care each moment
a raindrop enlarged a puddle of rain.
It seemed to be logical then: examining rain,
the day before he got his first watch,
in the lonely old house, passing a moment
or longer duration, to gaze as a child,
looking out, when the parameters of time
were different; maybe like time for a wolf?
Being in the rain reminds the old man of a child.
He examines his watch and thinks there is time
for this moment when walking his dog.
Every day the old man walks and talks with his dog
and today’s topic is the smell of the rain.
She sniffs the air to prepare for this time.
On some rainy days they wait and watch
and look at the dropping rain like a child
examining drips, transfixed in the moment.
One day, the lakes ran dry, and the moment
it rained his senses were heightened – wolf-like,
acutely aware. He recalled as a child
he raced outside, his face to the rain,
his clothes were soaking, more joyous than to watch
inside in the dry. And now, this time,
he puts on his waterproof coat, this time,
with hood drawn tight to protect from the moment
the rain arrives on the wind. He watches
bubbles on little rivers, and his dog
licks water straight from the road. The rain
is thick and cold, but his inner child
is making mud like he made as a child
to channel the rainwater until such time
it overtops the dam. In the rain
they walk on through the wet woods. In a moment
he sees a bullfinch and he says to his dog,
“just look at that red!” – she says, “watching
red, is the smell of the rain”. He watches
where in a stream he stood as a child
who hunted for fish in pools, while a wolf
was delving in leaves, and he thought of the time
he looked and studied with care each moment
a raindrop enlarged a puddle of rain.
It seemed to be logical then: examining rain,
the day before he got his first watch,
in the lonely old house, passing a moment
or longer duration, to gaze as a child,
looking out, when the parameters of time
were different; maybe like time for a wolf?
Being in the rain reminds the old man of a child.
He examines his watch and thinks there is time
for this moment when walking his dog.
Rain Wolf won third prize in the Rialto Nature and Place poetry competition judged by Pascal Petit and was published in The Rialto issue 94. It is in the form of a Sestina.
The Long Stone Row was first published by bind collective
The Wild Call was first published by bind