A Pome a Day for a Year

Rain fell forty minutes previous,
I was locked away within safety
(a house owned for maximum stability)
and thunderous pitter patters hit glass
like furious fingertips feeling for quarries.

The grey skies hang
like draped clothes on the backs of college chairs,
my face pressed against glass,
searching for patches
of rain that might be lurking.

I do an impression of baby’s first steps
and leave the house,
gazing upwards for secretive precipitation,
satisfied that we are in the dry period.

Water pools in puddles and
covers, natural damp rugs, the brickwork
between me and the car.

I take a moment and stand stock still,
the air around me wet and fresh.
Breathing in, filling lungs with lingering vapour,
my frame invigorated and awakened
ready for the day ahead.