Small holes in the silence

It might be that we have had a relatively dry few weeks, but when the rain started up again last week, I was almost happy for it. I guess we don’t get quite enough sun here to have that delicious smell of rain on warm concrete very often, but we had it once last week and it took me back to being 9 or so, and playing netball with my class on the outdoor courts.  And, as that smell always does, it reminded me of this poem:

Rain by Hone Tuwhare

I can hear you making
small holes in the silence

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind:

the steady drum-roll
sound you make
when the wind drops

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

But if I should not
smell or feel or see you

You would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me

(you can see a painting of this poem here)


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