After the Rain
The garden slumps, greener
against the slick stone wall,
and clumps of wet wood-chip
that mark the path through
this patch of mock-wilderness,
and droplets still cling
to the yellowing flowers
I still haven’t learnt the names of–
planted by some former tenant
whose trace is only felt now
in this garden and the hand-draw map,
stuck with ambered tape
to the wood slats of our back door,
charting out in soft grey pencil
which areas are best for planting what.
I look out on it all now–
after the rain, after the bees,
who shuttled through this morning
when the weather was fairer,
in their bronzed rugby kits,
have all returned to the safety of the hive–
practicing taking my time.
Trying to focus intently enough
to witness the skin-crawling slowness
of these wet, old flowers dying
and the next season’s sprouting
and the snail inching its way across the wall
which, really, all appears to me as a stillness
interrupted now and then by the wind.
Daniel Dicks currently lives in Edinburgh, where he just finished his masters in Creative Writing. His poems often focus on presentations of ‘everyday’ moments and experiences. This is his first published poem.
Twitter: @Dannyd_99
