D j Cawood

All afternoon
the sky was cloaked in grey.
Cold rain drizzled
a thousand angels’ tears.

Sodden burnished-gold leaves
on the damp ground softened,
breathed new life once more.
Dark streaks on poplar trunks
stained their smooth arms.

Tiny droplets suspended
on the tips of maple fingers
swelled
then fell dreamily
to the waiting lap of earth.

But by late day
a rent in the blanket
exposes a blue strip.
The sun pours through
creating a million liquid prisms.