Grace

At the station,
the rain is over, it is before
the rain.

Sky, then ash trees, then
hawthorn, rowan, elder.
Cow parsley, wild carrot, chervil.
All in full flower.
The scent dredges down
through the wet air
like icing sugar from a sifter.
It dissolves on touch with the warm earth,
runs off in little puffs
like breath.
Sunday morning. People waiting: the farmers
in caps, their wives in stout shoes, their young
in new trainers.
They stand under
this rain of invisible fragrance.
There is something
unearthly about it. Like the fragrance
from the body of a saint.
Flowering grasses grow between the sleepers.
The rain comes again. Not cold, whitening the sky.
All the little curling fronds
of opening leaves in the straight clean rain.
And the quiet people waiting.