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After Rain
Sodden and pale
the lawn where the children played
save the bare darkened patch
where the young hero’s bat
tapped the turf into dust
from lunchtime to dusk.
I taste in my tea
the just turned milk,
stare and savour
the wound in the turf -
how it will mend,
is mending already.
I pad around outside,
tip a chair to hear
pooled water sliding
onto the paving stones.
My son appears, warm
and thick with sleep;
for five minutes he squats
to coax a snail.
I pick two cherries,
beaded with rain -
one just ripe,
the other dark and splitting,
its wound
dry as yesterday.
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