In the Rain

A poem of mankind's youth

 In the Rain

In the rain she heard her mother’s voice
and for a moment believed she lived again.
Did not the moon return, return to the night,
return in her own self? Had not the seasons
come in their turn, the cold, the fruitful
times of birth and growth? All things, she thought,
all things. The nursing baby, the blood of the hunt
and of the woman. Could it all be one?
Speak, again, my mother, she murmured,
falling into sleep. Speak in the rain.

Stephen Brooke ©2025