Suddenly it is
Like the conversion
Of St Paul: the rain
Has stopped falling and

You feel that moment
Of dryness, that sweet
Second when the rain
Ceases hitting your

Face, when the wetness
On your brow (despite
The umbrella) stops
Running down your nose.

You stand still; take in
The sharp sight, the feel.
People still walking,
Carrying on, still

Going about their
Lives, stepping around
Or over not through
Puddles, thinking their

Thoughts, unaware the
Rainfall has come to
An end. You breathe in
The air, that after

Rain smell that stink of
Wet cloth, that sudden
Realization
You want to ***. You

Hold the umbrella
Over your dry head
Uncertain if the
Rainfall will come once

More and catch you out.
Father would allow
You to stomp through small
Puddles as a child,

But Mother would not,
She’d steer you around
Them with the calm
Carefulness of a

Saint, gripping your arm
As if you were in
Danger and about
To drown. Dead now, both

In their separate
Graves, separate as
They were in life, he
Just her husband, she

Just his woeful wife.
The rainfall is now
Returning, just a
Short reprieve, like a

Life between two deaths,
And the need to ***
Just as powerful,
The realization

Of being, the wet
And the clinging damp
Clothes, the sneaky wind,
The people passing,

And you still standing
There, breathing in the
After rain smell and
Raining again air.