It is raining.
Flecks on the glass become droplets,
coalesce into rivulets, turn horizontally
and gather pace as
the train outraces the rain.
The shower becomes a downpour,
then a storm. Spouts of water
bounce off passing streets; torrents
gush from downpipes, overpowering gutters,
converting roads to rivers. And
with each moment the scenery changes;
the years roll back, until I sense the
cold, biting wind of a Yorkshire dale;
your hood-framed face smiling through
a curtain of dripping water.
I hear, too, the wind raging around
a cliff-top cottage on Lundy Isle,
as you sip wine by candlelight;
and I sense the humidity as you shower
outside amidst the heat of a Maldivian storm.
With every cloudburst, the dust
of the years is washed away, revealing
memory after memory until the
scene settles on two stone steps
within a Lincoln doorway, framing
and two people, twenty years younger;
and I know the intensity of that
rain-soaked moment when
© Copyright Robert M Jaggs-Fowler 2011