Daily Rainfall, 0900
A pantoum for the volunteer who reads the gauge
At nine I read the gauge and write it down.
The funnel takes whatever the night let fall.
Nothing is too small to be measured here.
A tenth of a millimetre is still rain.
The funnel takes whatever the night let fall.
I tip it into the glass and hold it to the light.
A tenth of a millimetre is still rain.
The book has columns for the days it didn’t.
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I tip it into the glass and hold it to the light.
Some mornings there is only a bead, like a held breath.
The book has columns for the days it didn’t.
I write a nought there. A nought is a measurement too.
Some mornings there is only a bead, like a held breath.
Then I pour it on the grass, where it was going.
I write a nought there. A nought is a measurement too.
No one has asked me in years what the total is.
Then I pour it on the grass, where it was going.
Nothing is too small to be measured here.
No one has asked me in years what the total is.
At nine I read the gauge and write it down.
Conclusion
Every day’s figure is small. The record is what gives it weight, and the record is kept by someone who goes out at nine whether or not anyone will ever add it up.
