John Pearce, "Blackberries in August, Muswell Hill" (1980)
Simple words suit it best --
This first day's rain,
Cool, gentle, soaking,
And the awaited fresh
Smell of it in the dust,
The long drought broken;
So simple accepting fits
The first day's waking
To the wide smell of the air,
The slow drink to the roots,
And the long drought breaking.
Joan Barton, A House Under Old Sarum: New and Selected Poems (1981).
I presume that books have been written about the various moss species found in this clime. They never vanish -- they only pause -- no matter how long the sun stays. Now and then, one encounters a car that sports a green sheen: you have to keep things moving, and out of the shade, or they will be swallowed. I have long wished to visit Kokedera (the Moss Temple) in Kyoto, where more than a hundred varieties may be found. But I imagine that, at this moment, I am surrounded by nearly that many.
Noel Spencer (1900-1986)
"Cloth Hall Mills, Dewsbury"
The Wet Summer
They were glad to come each evening in early summer
With the other lovers,
To sit under the wet chestnuts
High on this western hill where the city ends,
And the leaves cut out the sky
With their five dark fingers.
Under the dripping chestnuts or the drenched may
They sat with their fellows,
Quiet in the quiet rain,
Steadfast, with clasped hands.
Hair is not less fine, eyes grow no dimmer
In the dusk, and the rain's a private house
To those who have no other.
The lamps march down the hill past the shut-up houses,
And the wet boughs
Scrawl on those grave facades their erratic shadows,
The dusk falls equally on shabby stucco
And shabby lovers;
Constant without hope, dazed in happy pain,
They sit watching the other lovers pass
Between the heavy trees and the burdened grass.
Joan Barton, The Mistress and Other Poems (1972).
H. C. Bryer (1900-1986)
"79 1-2 High Street, Southampton, with Norman Chimney" (1950)