Afterwards (the still life of trees)
After the rain,
I walked
finding home
in the hidden dark,
the lane was empty,
the houses silent,
their windows shut,
trees dripped
in front gardens,
nodding
in the shadows
of streetlights
as I walked,
quietly,
slowly,
into the past.
The earth,
at last,
had exhaled,
the thunder
had cleared
the evening skies,
the dream,
of rain
simply,
no more,
just a fragrance
a scent
simple,
and complex,
light and dancing,
in the heaviness,
the storm passed press
of a sleeping,
slumbering,
fertile earth.
And as I followed
the curve,
the bend
of an old country lane,
the moon was there, hanging,
a lantern,
through the chaperoning whispers
of the forgotten wind,
the gentle conversations
of a thousand,
a thousand-thousand leaves,
I waited,
for the truth
of the evening,
rested,
in the beckoning hands
and the trembling
of multitudes
the still life
of trees.
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