Ballad of a Rainy Afternoon

The rain is falling onto the pond outside and, in mad rhythm, pounds on the windows. The clouds are dark and furious, emptying their contempt for humankind down onto us, greying the light, muting the colours of our own, private worlds. The air is silent except for the patter of exploding droplets on the concrete ground. It feels never-ending, as if the world had never known a day without rain, that the sky is always dark and foreboding. That the sun will never shine again.

Just when it seems there can be no more water left in the sky, it begins again with renewed vigour, enlisting the help of the wind, whipping the trees into a frenzy. Suddenly, it is not just raining, but snowing tiny pink petals as the young blossoms are given premature independence. As suddenly as it started, the wind dies, and no longer do the clouds retain any personality. Their anger is dissipated and must be content with sullen drizzle, filling the air with fine mist, serving no greater purpose than to add a glistening shine to the leaves on the oak tree.

The drizzle begins to fade and slowly the clouds turn from desolate grey to white. There is a gleam to their edges as the sun fights for freedom. The silence of the air is broken by birdsong and the quiet drip of droplet from leaf to ground in slow procession as the trees shake themselves dry in the breeze. The sheen given to the grass separates into individual beads of smooth crystal encasing the blades, as the clouds begin to journey eastwards, taking their battle to weaker prey.