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