And now creeps down
The soft, sweet shadow of the rain.
Over this black-roofed town
On stealthy-stealing feet she comes again.
Across the street
In quick flight, grey and bold,
And brightly fleet
By lighted windows glisters for one moment gold.
Here cold and wet,
With small, chill fingers in my hair,
I think, But yet
Has her swift journey reached a high hill where
Two weeks ago
We lay alone, in light, above the sea,
Your voice as slow
And silver-gay as shadows in a wind-touched tree.
And oh, I know
The spell of joy that still is on that place
As grasses backward blow
Will halt the rain with a sad wonder on her face!
And she will slip
Down silently and leave our hill alone,
And hide where dark leaves drip….
We caught the sun forever there—the shadows are our own.
= David Hoak