Thursday, 30 April 2009

In Praise of the Rain

My philosophy is to seek simplicity,
Purity, calm and natural beauty,
Far from all maddening men,
To walk along lost lonely lanes,
Spurned by speeding feral folk,
As Summers cry is in full throat,
And stand apart from all others,
In verdant fields of wild flowers,
Awaiting a sudden seduction of rain,
Whose heralds crash overhead,
Growling in their cage of clouds,
Calling the storm to whip the world,
And sweep away the factory stains,
Of chimneys and passing planes,
That belch and scar the perfect sky,
For then I strip away convention,
From the sacred temple of my skin,
Experience that simple revelation,
And naked beneath the rising wind,
Await the rain, to be reborn again.

Why do you all run from the rain,
For there is no mortal sin or shame,
To stand upon this sacred ground,
Swaddled no more, now unbound,
Free at last in our own homeland,
Washing all our daily sins away,
In the glory of a clouds cascade,
To feel the joy that was, before the Cross,
Which has now shamed such simple things,
For only fools flee like foxes,
From drizzle and downpours,
The torrent and the drench,
Running for dens of dry earth,
To hide inside until the rain,
Drifts once more gently away,
And the red, red sun is set free,
To scorch the fresh sky anew,
Its angry eye, roaring in the blue
Blistering our pale, precious skins,
As the deadly price of its dominion.

I seek sullen skies, rising high
Bruised anvils of cumulus cloud,
Which slowly rumble and drift,
Dragging their dark eagle wings,
Across the dull, dimming sun,
That fiery fiend, rains mortal foe,
Which you deign your friend,
Who burns you with its fury,
As you abase yourself before it,
Purchasing its bleak blessing,
Of brown upon your burnt flesh,
In hot foreign lands far away,
No home for pale folk like me,
Whilst I await cooling winds,
England’s wild, wilting storms,
Which salve and irrigate my skin,
With a soft and precious wet,
That slakes the thirst of soul,
And graces our Eden with green,
As serpent rivers rise in their wake.

Each rain drop that softly slips,
Every delicate, deadly drop,
That spits, pitters, pats and plops,
Are all my precious pleasures,
But beware their furious sisters,
Set free from their cells by the storm,
Cast forth from gourds of cloud,
That flash and rattle with hail,
They season the soil with salt,
With a wicked whim of winter,
In the midst of gilding summer,
Yet such tantrums will cease,
And soft rain return, bestowing
Upon the petals that nod,
And my naked skin, sky clad,
A burden of pellucid baubles,
That shiver me with their ecstasy,
As the sun returns to ride the sky,
Peeping through a veil of pale cloud,
Warming my wet skin with its whispers.

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