Rain

I am sitting at my computer and a memory of walking behind a waterfall  has appeared..I remembered we climbed up and in behind one when we went to the Angel falls in Venezuela.My spouting has micro trees in it and water is sheeting over the edge outside my studio window.The rain is lit in pieces as it falls by my lamp.
This rain has been relentless..days and days of it..The water table is rising ,I weeded today in a brief interlude of dry sky and pulled docks out of the ground with tap roots 20 and 30 cm long, intact.
As the rain started up again tonight and rain plopped through our tiles onto the carpet..Hones poem started up in my head.

   

 Rain         

I can hear you

making small holes

in the silence

rain

If I were deaf

the pores of my skin

would open to you

and shut

And I

should know you

by the lick of you

if I were blind

the something

special smell of you

when the sun cakes

the ground

the steady

drum-roll sound

you make

when the wind drops

But if I

should not hear

smell or feel or see

you

you would still

define me

disperse me

wash over me

rain

Hone Tuwhare 1922-2008

and I found this one by

Paula Green

Waitakere Rain

Ernest Hemingway found rain to be

made of knowledge, experience

wine oil salt vinegar quince

bed early mornings nights days the sea

men women dogs hill and rich valley

the appearance and disappearance of sense

or trains on curved and straight tracks, hence

love honour and dishonour, a scent of infinity.

In my city the rain you get

is made of massive kauri trees, the call of forest birds

howling dark oceans and mangroved creeks.

I taste constancy, memory and yet

there’s the watery departure of words

from the thunder-black sand at Te Henga Beach.