Given Rain

by David Mason

Late in these latitudes,
the given rain, hazel and
evergreen by the small roads
where few are traveling,

inwards, indoors, the books
lie open, read not at random
but by dreaming whimsy
like roads in the dusk.

The child who struggled
to write a name and struggled
harder to believe that name
now moves the pen

of the one who has come indoors
and shaken the rain
and left muddy boots on the mat.
The world is wet

and close and the light
is low, the books
glow with a darkness of their own,
the words like rain in the mind.

It is late in these latitudes.
Sleep on, says the hill
of the night and the tunneling road
bent out of sight.