The sky over the city bends and cracks
Sags close over houses, and then backtracks
On seeing they both are grey
It stealthily slips away
Saving rain for another day
Storm clouds gust off on the wind's conveyor belt
Icy droplets fall, but are never felt
As a little girl sighs
Disappointment in eyes
As it passes on by
She longs for the drumming of extended spheres
It's the only sweet sound that she ever hears
In an unhappy home
She stands alone
Suppressing a groan
As the heavy grey clouds that reflect her heart
Forget their promises of death do us part
It's ordinary fear she faces
And as she paces
They escape to better places
***
I've never quite managed to understand people who don't like rain. I know that sounds kinda of harsh, but to me it's just the most soothing sound in the world, and if feels amazing against your face, and petrichor is my favourite smell, and it's just generally cleansing.
I spent a long time once calculating exactly what shape a falling drop of rain would be.
Anyway, I know there are people who hate it, and fair enough, but it will come up in my poems a lot.
Challenge: a poem about rain. Go.
Alex xxx
YOU ARE READING
Under My Sofa
PoetryWhen I was little I wrote in the space under my sofa. Now I write on top of it. That's not poetic. I'm just too big to fit underneath anymore.
