In the pause between downpours, the speaker takes in a wet woodland scene transformed by the storm. The road now has a strange purple border inside the grass—the last November leaves, torn from hazel, thorn, and taller trees. No dead leaf stirs in the copse; the grey grass, green moss, and burnt-orange fern are perfectly still. Even the fallen ash leaflets lie scattered in the road like tiny black fish inlaid in the surface, almost playful. What catches the eye most, though, hangs from one bare crab-tree: twelve yellow apples, lovely and surprising in all that starkness. And then the quiet observation shifts to the near-invisible—every twig on every tree is beaded with rain crystals, both dark and bright, just as the rain begins again. The mood is one of hushed, patient attention: the world rinsed clean, a moment of fragile clarity before the weather returns.
After Rain — Summary
THE rain of a night and a day and a night Stops at the light Of this pale choked day. The peering sun Sees what has been done. The road under the trees has a border new Of purple hue Inside the border of bright thin grass: For all that has Been left by November of leaves is torn From hazel and thorn And the greater trees. Throughout the copse No dead leaf drops On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern, At the wind's return: The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed Are thinly spread In the road, like little black fish, inlaid, As if they played. What hangs from the myriad branches down there So hard and bare Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see On one crab-tree. And on each twig of every tree in the dell Uncountable Crystals both dark and bright of the rain That begins again.