Grey clouds muscling in on higher sunlit banks
accumulate like signs of uncertainty now
we’re hurrying home across a makeshift bridge
and unable to face catching each other’s eye.
The rain holds off for only so long –
until here we are, drenched by a deluge
we should have had the sense to see coming.
This might be the season’s hope dispersing
in petals washing down through storm gutters
and somewhere a shrill finch silencing its song.
Only clearing now, the sky’s mood has gone
and ours might lift too at each flower left intact
on the rosebush cascades, a ripening sheen
emerging into view, spreading out along the street.