It's easy to like
the rain that starts with one big splodge
on dry paving
and seconds later is bouncing off it.

Some even praise the sky
for its deliverance, having waited
on cracked earth for so long.
(Whole deserts come into bloom.)

And for a while
there is no more
silent sun, 
killing everything.

But I still dream
of a gentler rain -
one that comes
whenever our plants
almost wilt.

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on this poem,  Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear from you.