Rain

and I walk up on the moors in the cold damp air, water dripping from my hat brim, trouser legs growing dark, the colours of the grasses shining out of the fine mist, shining ginger plumes like fire, and I walk in deep muddy puddles of old rain like cold tea, my hands in black and orange mittens grow pink and moist, warm at the palms cool at the fingertips, and I see no one