Rockhollow Rain

Working my way back, it's five in the early evening,
apples on the tree, hanging heavy,
rain falls, as if an allotmenteer is scattering seeds in rows above.  
Azaleas and dahlias brightens the late puffs of Summer, all
green and brown otherwise -
light footed hunter sits at my feet, snuffling irregularly, hence the bell,
too many birds and rats resting over the wall on her watch.
I admire the echiums, preparing for their third Summer, their final Summer,  
I wonder if they know yet.
A gladiolus in pink dares to flower in the bed of otherwise purple and whites,
he's eliminated  
without mercy
and the day's aches are numbed
in the solitude of this wet place,
no birds or squirrels a-hunting,
just you,
only I.