A MAY SHOWER

A May shower. A single drop
absorbing into parched leather sleeve.
Downpour. Tender spring leaves
dancing to it's tune.

Deluge. Running down
the back of your collar.
Heavy drops colliding
with concrete path:
an explosion of tiny droplets
leaping at the sky.
Laburnum flowers shudder
as if to dinosaur footfalls,
while curls in human hair
stretch and unravel.

There is power in heavy rain,
in it's ability to change things:
to evacuate the park, to empty streets
into bus shelters and shop doorways.
A car door slams and a man runs out
under a giant black umbrella.
By a wooden fence a wild orchid
absorbs the rain thirstily,
it's intricately spotted leaves like tongues
swallowing, savouring the moment.

Rumble of thunder.
Two young lovers kissing
under an Oak tree, trembling with emotion.
Windscreens of parked cars
are patterned with yellow tide marks
of wasted pollen, just as
black mascara has reinvented my face,
mimicing the hand of Picasso.