there is fine green rain
There is fine green rain* falling in the woods, though at times not so much falling as hovering, resting lightly on the air. It rests, too, on leaves and petals, collecting in the concertinaed goblets of Lady’s Mantle, hanging poised on the lips of the rich yellow blooms of Broom. The open faces of the Dog Roses are studded with perfect transparent globes while the frilly Lungwort on the birches just glistens.
I listen for the sounds of falling—for the soft pattering of rain, the gentle hiss of drizzle—but there’s not even the sound of dripping. All the moisture is suspended, like dew evaporating into mist in the early morning sunlight, although in this case the sun is long risen and well concealed behind cloud.
I walk carefully among the wet bushes and branches as the fine green rain dampens my skin and beads on my curling hair, trying not to disturb the myriad droplets trembling like moments of time on the breathing surface of each living form.
* A line in ‘Forecast’ by Andrew Ogilvie, Shout: Collected Poems from Corbenic Poets, Tippermuir Books
Broom, Culag Wood, Lochinver, Assynt, Scotland
20th June 2026