When it rains, I write.

The city streets awash with rain's wet flow
Runners flee from droplets heavy and flung
Icy wind sends forth a frozen arrow
And hark at lightning's voice as thunder sung

Soft light shines over from the flooded path
Suppressed, the world shall hide itself away
Within the soft and stormy aftermath
There dwells the death of summer's longing stay

Leaves greening still against the greying sky
Then whisked beyond to settle far below
No beast shall walk, nor little birds will fly
As fell winds sweep and sharper winds do blow

But cleansed the world will be as once anew
And shining sun will falter overhead
Where in the west, the twilight breaking through
Will cast a glow on cities once thought dead.


--

Steady as she goes...

Sitting on the floor beside a hospital bed. Low hum and soft hiss of air. Nurses chatter, chuckle. Watching the blanket shift up and down subtly - as long as it doesn't still, things are okay. Breathing sounds change, heavier, then silent again. I think she's dreaming. What do dying people dream of. Teacups tinkle in the hall and bright sun beams through broken blinds. White skies and grey seas show through shivering slits. The cool dry air sits heavily on my skin. Caution. Warning. One of the only people that have been around your entire life may not be alive soon.
She sniffles in the bed, looking small, like a child.

Interrupted. Unfinished.

She died, but not for a few months after this. In her comfortable bed, palliatively cared for in her high quality aged care facility.
I did not see her as often as I could have. But she wasn't really 'her' anymore, and she hadn't been for a long time.
She was my Grandma and I loved her very much.

When it rains, I wander.

The rain starts as I step out my front door. Droplets touch my hands as I check my mail, but the thought of aborting my venture does not sway me. The warm air and petrichor surround me and I wander into the twilight.
It is bucketing down before my bus has even left the city, and the sky is darkening unusually early. I wonder if my plan for drawing at the beach is over ambitious. The water is already thick on the roads. Deep puddles hinder movement and visibility stretches barely 3 cars ahead. It seems the sky feels this rainfall is long overdue. Sad strangers in summer suits seek shelter in stupefaction. White waves wash the roads as we ride westward. Bounding boys brave the pooling pathways.


I got lost in alliteration.
Thus, unfinished.