Like medicine that’s “everso nice when the nasty taste’s gone”, several days of torrential rain left has everywhere washed and bright and sparkling:
I expect there will be more storms later, but I’ve tipped the spiders out of my red wellies and found my hand-knitted winter socks, so I’ll be all right.
Rain doesn’t stop play
I’ve read about the ancient gods in picture books
and understand Thursdays are meant to be wet.
We’ll stay indoors and play at raindrop races,
smearing encouraging finger trails on misted panes;
we’ll map a sailor suit from ragged bits of blue
breaking between grey; then, when the sun’s triumphant,
clad in red galoshes, macintoshes slick and shiny
with anticipation, the ribbons of our just-in-case
sou’westers tight under our chins, we’ll sally forth.
Sidestepping slugs high-tided on the garden path,
we’ll stomp through puddles, dodge squished worms,
and glory in Thor’s bounty. The fields give up
their mysteries to worshippers in wellingtons:
we’ll poke in sodden earth with sticks, release
white bloated maggots to writhe and squirm,
choked on dazzling water, while the dogs run,
cartwheeling rainbows all around.