a flood in december

it’s still raining.

the hills are waterlogged ghosts,

with their tree-blankets all woolen in white 

but for a few dark shapes,

like they’ve been transplanted from some deep, misty forest

somewhere in Europe.

the sky too is white, like the absences

in a peaceful mind;

and the sound of the rain dancing on our tin roof,

the way it only knows how,

makes a cocoon of quilts and quiet

and utterly unremedied dreaminess.

though fallen legions of raindrops block this path

and that, and make threats in their rising,

i feel still, and happy being dreary.

i wonder about these two sides 

of the uninvited river over the road.

(#australiancloudsthrowingatantrum)