A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“Oh that my words . . . were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!” —Job 19:24

There Shall Come

It’s near two years since gentle rain —
how soft it comes! — has chilled my burning skin.
Oh, hail there’s been; and still, the pain
remembered brings its icy bruises back
upon my breast in blue and purple stains.

The wild, warm fury’s gone
of Florida’s gales and boist’rous, balmy winds.
Not warmth, nor harshness drums upon
my flesh. No iciness is in this rain,
and I feel upon my skin the chill of dawn.

Apologetically, the sky with dampness dusts me.
The soft rains are come.

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