I love it when it rains
like the end of the world.
When the pounding of a million drops,
as though hurled in anger,
drowns out all existence,
as if the skies were pounding on the roof,
demanding admission
demanding to be remembered.
When the horizon steadily encroaches,
like a marching army
bearing a vast, grey banner.
When the sun hides,
as if afraid
that it might be doused for good.
I love that in these moments,
a house becomes not some monument
to words upon a title-deed,
its walls not mere boundary lines,
but a haven,
a cave.
I love that it awakens
that primordial consciousness,
that it whispers
to the dark corners of the mind,
that despite science, reason,
and civilisation,
still fear lightning
and hear gods bellowing in the clouds.
