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NaBloPoMo- rain on me

When I think of rain I remember this:*

...The end of high summer draught. Hills dense with mist. The wind in the cypress, bringing with it the clouds and the smell of the sea. A precipitation in the air, like a hand being run down your spine. A feeling of waiting, poised, between breaths. Fat raindrops in the dust, in the sunschorched grass. A palpable, pleasurable shiver of the trees.

... Going to sleep with the noise of the wind and the rain like a tongue on the sides of the house, and waking up to a different world. Wet and shimmery, with new grass already showing. Running barefoot over the slippery wet, jumping in puddles.

... Rain on the open sea. The boat prancing on the waves. The rain is warm. Beneath the surface the current is strong. My fins struggle against it. Frondy things sway in it. Schools of fish, all colours, all kinds, dart past. Farther off nurse sharks and graceful ponderous rays.

...The ending of another drought. Running for the shelter of a doorway with the man I was with. The noise of in the gutters, the scent of wet stone. No words, just a smile in his eyes, and his light-crowned face. And then his body pressing up against my body, and his lips on my lips, and my hand in his wet hair, and his hand cupping the side of my face and my neck.


... Dancing barefoot, spinning in the grass with outsretched arms and whirly skirt, on my wedding day.


*What I repress of course is every miserable, cold trudge to work with my bedraggled hair and leaking shoes and squelchy socks.

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