Rain. Rain. The endless rain.
I couldn’t sleep for the rain.
Falling on the window, on the door.
Leaking through the roof,
dripping in pots in the hallway.
I had to move the bed, cos it was below a leak.
The water mark on the ceiling getting bigger as the days run on,
and sleep doesn’t come,
and the whole world feels tilted.
Sit up and watch the rain.
Watch the people walking up the street,
waiting to see someone go by in a homemade boat,
or a duck in an upside‑down umbrella
sailing down the street.
Did I see that?
Pull the curtains and let it be.
Sitting in the bedroom,
with an orchestra
of dripping water into pots.
A crash.
Like the house giving up.
And the sound of rushing water.
The ceiling in the hallway is gone.
Water flooding down, like at Rouken Glen.
Grab my hat and the suitcase.
Jump into the raging torrent.
And I’m down the hall,
sitting in the suitcase.
Through the doorway,
past the postie,
and down the hill
with a hatful of rain.
Feet soaked,
wind in my hair.
Under the railway bridge
and into town.
Finally stopped outside the local,
and I went in for a beer.
No clouds in here.
I hope.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
