It had been so long
since it last rained,
I had forgotten the safety, the stillness
of curling up
inside a rain;
the billions of tiny footsteps on roofs, on roads,
in grass, through forests;
over the horses in the meadow, set free
from gnats and biting flies,
while the puddles in the cities turn skyscrapers
upside down in the Wonderland of Alice,
windows going squint-eyed,
messages turning backwards and upside down,
in and out;
long striders in their shoes
with their mirrored spirits raging
in breaking angles,
disappearing without notice

Ah, the rustle of suits
hurrying out of doorways, into cabs;
out of carriages, into arcades;
umbrellas folding, unfolding,
like a grey-weather ballet at the Academy

And in a time long gone
I would have changed the paper in the typewriter,
savouring the heavy scent of damp wool

Now time creeps across me
like rustling facts;
whispers close to my ear in the childhood rain
in Aunt Hilma's lush, moist garden
at Kalkudden in Mariefred;
her own paintings in small fames
on the walls,
she, small and hunched, her voice crooked:
”Don't say Aunt; my name is Hilma!”;
white, starched blouse, brooch, a few rings,
modest gold, small precious stones,
a faint perfume, barely there, just a trace
of a breeze
in the garden on a high summer evening,
with large snail shells in tall grass
beneath noble hardwoods,
where her two adult sons practised archery

And the cat steps into the present
with rain in its fur,
presses itself into my armpit and purrs
all of high summer
into the humid air