It's In That Falling Dew Poem by Ross Mackay

It's in that falling dew,
the quaint gardens and the moss brown patios
held down by the rain,
settling like bubbling salt to the sideways eye in the sky.
It's in that falling dew,
as we sail by the banks of the time loch in mid-afternoon
tiptoeing past the water froth,
relishing the bright grey sky in its great joyous tears.
It's in that falling dew,
the pegs left on the clothing line as we run inside
where behind the glass doors
we thought that we'd be sheltered, but left us unknown.
It's in that falling dew,
the moss growing nicely on the weathered rocks.
I'm happy to see the trees huddled
like time-old friends they laugh with the howling spirits of the breeze
as their sounds get lost in that falling dew.
Can you see the falling dew?