Home > Work > Rain
1 " While you spoke, it reached into the room switching off the mirrors in their frames and undeveloping your photographs;it gently drew a knife across the threadsthat tied your keepsakes to the things they kept "
― Don Paterson , Rain
2 " My boy is painting outer space,and steadies his brush-tip to tracethe comets, planets, moon and sunand all the circuitry they runin one great heavenly design.But when he tries to close the linehe draws around his upturned cup,his hand shakes, and he screws it up.The shake’s as old as he is, all(thank god) his body can recallof the hour when, one inch from home,we couldn’t get the air to him;and though today he’s all the earthand sky for breathing-space and breaththe whole damn troposphere can’t curethe flutter in his signature.But Jamie, nothing’s what we meant.The dream is taxed. We all resentthe quarter bled off by the darkbetween the bowstring and the markand trust to Krishna or to fateto keep our arrows halfway straight.But the target also draws our aim -our will and nature’s are the same;we are its living word, and nota book it wrote and then forgot,its fourteen-billion-year-old songinscribed in both our right and wrong -so even when you rage and moanand bring your fist down like a stoneon your spoiled work and useless kit,you just can’t help but broadcast it:look at the little avatarof your muddy water-jarfilling with the perfect ringsinging under everything. "
3 " forget the ink, the milk, the blood -all was washed clean with the floodwe rose up from the falling watersthe fallen rain's own sons and daughtersand none of this, none of this matters. "