Tag Archives: rain

Popcorn Stare

I could have looked away.

But it would still have happened.

He had mistimed his suited, leather brogue-d jog.

Quite badly.

The swelling gutter puddle had

trouble on its mind.

Buses are faster these days.

I think that’s what threw him off.

The speed.

He drew level with the black water.

Jogging, hesitating, now sprinting.

The bus arrived on time.

The soaking could not have been more.

Almost as if he wanted it.

If he had, he could not have timed it better.

Even his hat was wet.

Dripping.

He stopped sprinting.

Stood still.

Turned and looked at the big red bus now long gone.

He held his hands out to the side.

Looked down at himself.

Exasperated.

A look to the sky.

A religious man, I thought.

Perhaps, no longer.

Maybe that soaking was the last straw.

That shattered his faith.

God hates me, he thought.

I couldn’t be wetter and now

I don’t even have God.

I felt bad that part of me

enjoyed his dilemma.

If he had avoided the soaking would

he still be happy with God?

Was he ever?

Was this all that was ever standing inbetween

this man and his faith in the almighty?

A large puddle and a bus?

A drenched suit and hat?

Perhaps he was just cursing the rain clouds?

This is a good place to sit, I thought.

I’ll get another pint.

 

 

 

 


The Sympathy of Rain

The sound of the rain washes me away.

It takes me back to an unknown place.

To a time that I can not quite put my finger on.

It is more of a feeling than a memory,

a sort of nostalgia for something I have lost.

Something long forgotten.

Rain on windows always does this to me.

Sometimes I think that if I stare long enough at the glass,

that if I count enough straggly raindrops running down towards the sill,

I will remember what it is.

But I never do.

I try to let the rhythm of the rain hypnotise me

into releasing the uncried tear that I know is there.

But I am always just left with the same slight melancholy,

the same refreshing, inspiring sadness.

If you have ever cried next to a window in a rainstorm

then you probably understand the sympathy of rain.

Like dew crystals on tufty cemetery grass.

I think that’s why I like caravans.

I like tents too.

But the sound of rain on tents leaves me longing for a window.

For something to take me a step closer to my buried memories.

For something that will do my crying for me.

Soon to be published in Volume Two of Incandescent;  http://www.incandescentpoetry.com/