Summer Rain

There’s a melancholic poetry about the summer rain.
It mixes with the smoke from chimney-stacks
And seems to lift the hues in cobblestones and old brick walls,
As it flattens dust and paints the colours back.
The drum from sphagnum moss hung down in beards from the gutters
Adds a rhythm to the watercolour day.
And the screaming, bawling children with their tattooed mums and dads
Have all been tidied from the streets and locked away.
This is the world returned to me. It smells so clean and tastes so fresh.
Freed from all the sprawling painted clowns that constitute the mess
Of summer’s crust. The rain keeps coming and the world is mine again.
My soul is reinvigorated. That’s why I’m fond of summer rain.