[ai] night [ɪ] still [ʌ/ ʊ] mud [ɒ] common [i:] each [əʊ] own [e/ eə:] sense
[ei] pane [ɜː] world [ʊə/ u/ u:] dew [au] cloud [æ] black [ɔː/ ɔɪ ] straw
Gifts of Rain
Cloudburst
and
steady
downpour
now
for
days.
Still
mammal,
straw-footed
on the mud,
he begins
to sense
weather
by his
skin.
A
nimble
snout
of flood
licks
over
stepping
stones
and goes
uprooting.
He
fords
his
life by sounding.
Soundings.
II
A
man
wading
lost fields
breaks
the
pane
of
flood:
A flower of mud-
water blooms up to his reflection
like a cut swaying
its red spoor through a basin.
His hands grub
where the spade has uncastled
sunken
drills,
an
atlantis
he
depends
on. So
he
is hooped
to where
he planted
and
sky and
ground
are
running
naturally
among
his arms
that
grope
the cropping land.
III
When
rains
were
gathering
there
would
be an
all-night
roaring
off
the
ford.
Their world-schooled ear
could
monitor
the usual
confabulations,
the
race
slabbering past the gable,
the Moyola harping on
its gravel beds:
all
spouts
by daylight
brimmed
with
their
own
airs
and
overflowed
each
barrel
in
long
tresses.
I
cock
my
ear
at
an absence
-
in the shared calling of blood
arrives my need
for
antediluvian
lore.
Soft
voices
of
the dead
are whispering by the shore
that I would question
(and
for
my children's
sake)
about
crops
rotted,
river
mud
glazing
the baked
clay
floor.
IV
The
tawny
guttural
water
spells
itself:
Moyola
is its own score and consort,
bedding
the locale
in
the utterance,
reed music, an old chanter
breathing its mists
through
voweIs
and history.
A swollen
river,
a mating call of sound
rises
to pleasure
me,
Dives,
hoarder
of common
ground.