Something about the world after a heavy rain fall;
the kind that falls urgently as if to extinguish a fiery
morning,
the kind that flows like severe black ink in darkened lanes.
I let the sky have her terrible tantrum before I opened the
door,
having said her piece and hysterical tears, she seems to
rest
I walked, treading softly on the tired bending blades of
grass, soaked in tragedy
while the old trodden earth lets loose her familiar (after
rain) smell of gratitude
“everything must calm down now, all must retire”
I brush her long black hair, last chore of the day
“Mummy! Do you think I look like you?”
I look up from my task and find my face in her mirror, her
thick glossy hair
like jet black ink, and mine slowly turning grey.
Why is it that they begin to come just as we are begin to
go?
