the rain in her prismed sonnets speaks to me
though you'd hardly believe it
gushing down drain pipes
and from the eaves
and from the summer leaves
so much so that I wonder why their
green watercolour does not drip off
and stain the pavements,
rippling the harps of ponds and hidden lakes.
wave after wave the sibilant rains recall
the feeling of comfort when I was small
or home from school for months
having come to term with all terms.
the air is shining
and I feel shining within
even now, as much as then
and christened.
mary angela douglas 1 august 2022
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