It begins as a light tapping
a rhythmic patter
of ghostly fingers
that leave only tear streaks down the pane.
Wellies left outside the door
in a rush
soon begin to fill
and seeds cast on bird tables glisten
like small nuggets of gold.
The smell of the earth rises,
bringing forth a crowd of slugs and snails
who rummage through fallen leaves.
A tiny river courses along the path,
wetting moss and stone,
finally pooling in the dip that always stays
just a little bit damp.