Some Wet Sunday

Slowly the gash of blue is crushed from sight.
With thunder’s crash the clouds slam shut
Sealing the sky, turning the day into grey twilight.
Huddled behind the rain-streaked pane
We wait, as down it comes again.

The sparrows and yellow head in the old dead tree,
Cock an eye to the sky
Then with swift strokes they flee.
Beating the heavy air
But too late…

The first spots tinkle on the pane,
Dance and prance in the pools by the terrace door.
The clatter on the roof grows
Then the window floods as the gutter overflows.
Damn, I forgot that chore.

With surge and rush into the gully it flows.
Down banks, gouging fresh paths as it goes.
While the great punga fronds bend ‘neath countless tiny blows.
The bush pays homage to the rain,
For it is life…

With blow and bluster the squall passes by.
And to the nor’ west a blue crease opens in the sky.
The sun spotlights a crane,
High on the skyline across the bay
As over there down it comes again.

With a taste of freshness keen, not bland,
In air scrubbed clean, the houses stand.
The sun glistening off paint, glass,
And green, green grass;
Peace here, while over there…

It’s stopped it’s stopped. Come the cries from down the hall.
Oh dear, the promise. Okay I call.
Slowly the gash of blue is crushed from sight.
Get the macs, t’hell with the rain.
As down it comes again.

© Graham Little August 1981