The city asleep
Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain
is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging — but rain
twists senses, fractures distance, unzips
fences, chimneys, scaffolding. Everything but rain
rippled, colours drained: silhouetted pines,
apple trees in a park, a glowing cigarette butt. Rain
creeps in, up, around, so it never feels like drowning,
it’s sleepier. You hardly flinch from its cling. But rain’s
a key to endless life, infinities of drenching.
The first thrush knifes the dawn, its song
nothing but rain.
Julian Dobson has poems in a wide range of journals, including The Rialto, Stand, Acumen and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Julian lives in Sheffield and can be found on Bluesky at @juliandobson.bsky.social