Ode to a Wet Afternoon

So here I am, and you have come again
Wet afternoon; and I so welcome you –
You’re timeless, always bringing with you rain,
grey clouds, and heavy skies, no sign of blue.
You wash away the dust and factory fumes.
You cleanse our world of grime and clammy heat.
You always come with water, sometimes thunder
Which beats aloud defiant drummers’ tunes,
with sparks of lightning fi-reworks can’t beat.
And me? I sit here, I admire and I wonder.

I wonder how you know when you are needed.
You disregard the seasons, time or place,
weather forecasts people have not heeded.
But here I am, admiring what I face.
I sit here by my window, looking out
and listening to the sounds of you, at work,
refreshing all that grows out in the gully.
If I peer down, I see our water spout
gushing with your rain into the dirt
and mixing, making everything muddy.

I raise my eyes, and look across the space
and over there are flecks of gleaming gold –
You’ve washed the gorse and broom flowers’ faces,
as to your shower their heads they turn and hold.
Down my slope, ponga, pu-riri leaves now shine l
ike emerald, newly freshened where they grow.
They are the brightest green I’ve ever seen.
So thank you for this view, it’s only mine.
You’ve helped them to display their greatest show.
My heart is full of love for this, your scene.

The traffic sounds are muffled by the air
and by the music of your welcome rain
carried by the heavy clouds you bear,
tap-tapping on my open window pane.
Through the open window comes the song
of tuis, who have come to nectar sweet.
Wings they flutter, and they chuckle, sing.
You know this is the place they do belong.
Here in this open space where they can eat
their fill, and mate and nest, and spread their wings.

And I? Again, I thank you – just for this…
A wet afternoon, some quiet, time for peace.
My spirit soars to feel such luscious bliss.
I wish this afternoon could never cease.
You take a rest, let sun beams break through clouds. S
parkling di’monds from the rain drops shine
in manuka. See the show of shining stars of white?
Your work is done. You leave – but do be proud
of this gift you’ve offered. Its memory, mine.
And I shall dream of it for many nights.

Entry to the Mad Poets Society’s Jim Adams Silver Competition
(entries closed on 6th June; the competition was to write an Ode to a Wet Afternoon
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