The Rain

Everyone is talking about the weather: it is raining. A lot.
The sky is a grey, almost brown blanket of nothingness. The world is slick and even the birds are waterlogged.
From the inside looking out, the raindrops dance on the pavement; patio chairs are propped sadly against their tables, waiting too for the sun.
For those on the outside the raindrops are bullets. Penetrating your armour and taking you down one by tiny one. Your umbrella, if you are sensible enough to actually have one, is your shield, and you walk along the streets with the hope that you will avoid a splashing from the little rivers flowing at your feet.
Yet with rain things grow, they thrive. The grass becomes greener, daffodils are made more yellow and raindrops cling to windows and the bellies of things like chrysalises.
You reach your office; your car; your home and peel off your sodden layers.
You are soothed by tea, the rub of a towel on your hair and the gentle burn of the radiator.
And you know, deep down, that you wouldn't have it any other way.
Because life is about balance -  light and dark, good and bad, wet and dry.
Anyway, what would everyone talk about?


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