not vanishing but immanent

rain is not promised but the clouds hanging low
are their own message the little bit of swamp
behind the horse-fence is more wet than damp
the afternoon moves on ponderous and slow
the lights in the house provide what little glow
there is right now we live or die by the lamp
that seals our days we understand the stamp
of the lightbearers on the space we know
so that the moment might be understood
we look out at the trees and the low sky
and wonder at the softness of this light
beyond the house there's just a tiny wood
left standing to give this sprawl the lie
and never livelier than late at night