Rainstorm

How can a place
once buzzing with the hustle
of urban lives and skyscrapers
become deserted so quickly?
There is one thing so terrible ...

Like a cold blanket, it falls.
The silver sky mirrors the city
as it weeps, bawls,caressing the faces of grudging victims.
Always unforgiving.

The cries of mourning can be heard
over the steady beat of the drenching barrage.
Fleeing rouge-faced women, whose only lament
is their spoiling hair.
They cradle their manes.

Faceless masses walk in unison,
as a sea of dancing umbrellas shields them
from the sky's cascading assault.
Their hands grow numb, clutching crooked handles.
Fingers frozen into claws.

Unprepared trippers trudge with teeth set and nostrils flared,
becoming increasingly sodden,
as their little angels skip gleefully in murky pools.
Did the heavens have to be so rude as to spoil their plans?
They had waited so long.

Of course, there is not one who doesn't moan.
But would it not be liberating to simply stand in the soaking onslaught?
To find stillness in something that is anything but still?
Remember, this storm will only wet your skin.
Nothing more.

 


 By Sarah Wishart, Year 12, Columba College


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