Rain

All poems are about love,
if you follow them to the end,
even if it’s hidden amongst
curious anecdotes or images
contrived to throw you off the scent,

like this one about fields
that have just lost their snow,
leaving the cracked flint
and plough-combed furrows
to surprise a grey and ancient sky.

Or something closer still,
like wet hair across your tired face,
the purpling of lips as hours run off
like anxious kids.

So what about this?
Rain, like a shower of coins,
my wet hand,
elemental treasure,
anecdotal end.