and the river needs to brew its tannins

Walking halfway down the brae a gauze of rain out on the firth trails the river below from the tail of the bank east towards the city. On the far bank light splits and opens into a parasol of colour over the patterned fields. Then rain comes in pure sensation, even as the sun warms the skin.
From the broadleaf trees the rain sounds through the years of Mum’s shush in my ears settling me to sleep. Cool drops sprinkle the tired eyes I turn towards them. Running water on the slope of the street loosening the need to think it all together.
Somewhat, anyway I get there just as the rain-curtain draws over the sun, this is the Clyde estuary after all and the river needs to brew its tannins. Light dims and unites in tones of wet ashes. I have reached the south bank where a castle and its old stones gather the muted sky and vex themselves in clag and runoff, such soft pores of time.
I turn and head upriver and the rain overtakes me. The sun comes out in a gasp. Droplets sparkle, I feel the cells of the skin in my face pop and warm in the flattering light.
To my left the river relaxes: shushes that very sound I found in the rain on the trees. The landscape startled at the sudden look of itself. Because the sun: the sun splits open into the iridescent blue of a startled kingfisher,  backlights the fingered veins of leaves on a chestnut tree, the impossible white of mute swans bobbing among the buoys and returning tide. Yet still there is some rain; there is sunshine and rain concordant now, which might just be the very thing to get me back up the hill home.