Today is yet another day when I woke up
way before the birds.
I wondered whether to wish
for continuing Scotch mist, rain that gently
clean washes leaves, grass, people's faces,
– rain-spit incapable of settling dust
but adding just that little body and curl
to my hair.
But no, as I lay waiting, quietly listening
for the birds to begin,
conscience said: wish for the rain we need.
Rain that may hide people's faces, but
brings earth back ready for seed,
– this insistent rain mixes dust into clay,
stiffens the joints of my body and flattens