Inkblots

The rain calls to my soul,
My heart,
And I almost reach
For my notebook and pencil.

But I only accept
Inkblots and teardrops
On my poems.

It's raining at Tinturn Abbey
(Or Abaty Tyndyrn)
I have a daisy in two hands
(Thanks be
For friends who bring umbrellas).
And I marvel,
As poets before me,
Of the affect of nature
On the mind.

We both feel the secrets
The stones hold dear.

A downpour does not feel sorrow
Like these sad drops.

Missing chairs and long-gone tables
And these halls will ring no longer.