The leaves swayed, first like a drunkard at midnight
by David Taylor
on a moon swept path that seemed unstable beneath his feet
and then more gently as the wind abated and they, in unison,
slowly rocked as though a host of babies soothed to sleep
by the mothering arms of a softly moderated breeze.
Clouds barely perceptible in the general greyness
of rain laden sky scudded, slipped silently by
propelled by unseen hands that caressed them
into ever churning figments of imagination,
horses, candy floss and hills,
until overfilled with my thoughts they poured out their rain.
Splash on the tarmac each impact like a mute firework
exploding droplets that briefly hung in the air and returned
to the rivulets of water careering down the deserted street
and returning to secret depths through gurgling gutters
straining to drink from an overflowing cup of heavens birth.
Then it stopped as though a silent command had halted each drop
and shafts of sunlight streamed in arrowed ranks between the grey,
flashing gold and green brightly amid the branches laden with wetness
and sparkling silver on the birch bark that shined and clinged
above the gleaming grass that smelled so sweet.
A rainbow appeared and spoke with colours
starting shyly violet and ending blazon red,
and in between sleepy blue sliding into a restful green,
then awake with yellow and an orange tang announcing
its glorious culminating red, but it had no purple,
perhaps the shyness of violet took its place instead.