RAINY WEATHER IS THE MOST POETIC

There’s that moment before the sky falls down: 

wait and watch the clouds swell
And then, like explorers from another world
tentative, the drops begin to fall,
It sounds like cities being destroyed in the sky.
I listen to the water trickle in, sly
from an upstairs window; across the road
a woman carries in clothes hung to dry
In a slum, worldly possessions are soaked. 

Rainy mornings are the freshest to wake to; 

rising, I step outside and meet
the scent of earth, soaking wet
the clean sky, laundered and left to air
the paper – so drenched I can hardly read
the news of fifty farmers’ deaths.