I've got my ship in dry-dock. Refitting.
Paint. Varnish. Make and mend.
Formless sky, bright with rain and pattering light: the earth a trembling snare drum.
The rhythm just barely escapes me, but the drummer is joyful, and each raindrop is a spark thrown from the drumhead. The rain, thank God: the rain, real rain, at last.
Remember me to your aunts and uncles, with all respect and formality. My duty to them all. But my ship is upside down, being careened and recoppered. The weather, for once, is no concern of mine. My delight in the rain is purely that of a private person.
I shrug, throw on my hoodie, leave it all to the carpenter and the bosun.
I must go up to the shore again,
where the cat waits in the window, and the hopper in the yard;
where the beer is in the pitcher and the wagon is on the hard.