Monday, March 3, 2014

Possibilities in prose for the Wet Season

The rain drums, torrential, sliding through thunderous lightning, riding down through promises and possibilities, promising, deceiving, demanding, drumming.

Skies grey like muddled mind, as thoughts and hopes are drowned in what has yet to be and what will never come, and, even if it did, would not be what it had promised it would be; charades, persona, scaffolding for relationships which no longer exist.  The rain drums.

Clouds drift across muted skirts of blue and grey as wind rustles, lifts, teases at the edge of leaves and presses floral heads to new obedience. The morning waits, no words have come from distant minds. The rain whispers.

Lightning strikes in thunderous, fiery applause, searing, separating, exploding through the wires and pipes which network home; fusing, firing, feeling its way in that instant of melted becoming. The rain roars.

Brightness creeps, cautious, through dross of grey-tinged cloud, wary, waiting, wondering if the Wet Season has swallowed itself until next year, in that sudden way of disappearing that it has. In a shivered, shaking of damp feathers, the birds hold tight to sodden twig and shining leaf, singing to the hope of sun.


  1. I know you think this is prose, but it is wonderfully poetic, feeding all the senses, bringing them alive. Vivid with sights and sounds,


    1. Thankyou so much. I don't write much prose so I am always a bit unsure of what it is.

  2. I would say this is a prose poem, and such lovely poetics in this piece. I love how you use the rain as a refrain as you consider each part of the storm -- literal and interpersonal. I love this.

    The way you keep expanding on the same theme throughout the piece makes me think you might enjoy the "bop" form, invented by Afaa Michael Weaver. More info here:


    1. Thanks Nicole. Yes, I did have a look - written like a song really.