A gardener has moved her seedlings outside and now regrets hurrying. She second-guesses all her methods—peat pots, soil blocks, flats, perlite, moss, lamps—and lists the enemies that keep creeping in: snails, mice, rats, bindweed. The seedlings are “helpless babies in cracked clay,” which makes her worry sound both tender and slightly self-mocking. The mood is fussy, earthy, and quietly funny. She isn’t facing a grand tragedy, just the ordinary gamble of spring planting. Her prayer for rain is practical and a little desperate, since only a good soaking can save the little plants. The closing vow—“Never again shall I call April May”—feels like a comic, superstitious bargain, the kind a person makes when hovering over a garden and hoping the weather chooses mercy.
Praying for Rain — Summary
Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside, Really. She's never sure what's best for them, All down the years trying peat pots, blocks, Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,
Ingratiating herself with baked soils, Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss, Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats, Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats
Or even knotweed and bindweed Running their tendrils up through brick. Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried. All her helpless babies in cracked clay!
If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself, Never again shall I call April May.