Everything, even under-leaves,
Is soaked; water taps softly
On the cottage roof and sluices
Lazily in runnels everywhere.
Dock’s posts are mirrored
On its liquid surface;
A puddle sits on the boat roof canvas.
Sky and river are grey —
It’s early yet: tree bark is still dry.
The river surface, rippling slightly
In the almost nonexistent breeze,
Is pixellated by the insistent raindrops
Which softly fade the distant river shores.
And not a leaf moves. Except
For the drumming of the rain, no bird,
No boat, no other sound at all.
— August 27, 2006