Rain and all its forms Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders surrounding A little village Grey on the horizen Ocean way way below the village Down the mule trails Scraping in coils Pebble linings Down to the mediteranean sea In this village Cobble streets Coloured roof tops Crumbling houses Empty clotheslines Except a few wet clothes hanging Forgotten faded red shirt Hanging from one season To the next Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone Wooden shoes clack quickly As they rush over the street A lady Wearing hand woven clothes warm fresh flat bread Wrapped in cloth And in a basket. A young boy follows her His sweater held over his head Eyes obscurred He walks as though in a maze Then they are gone Empty streets A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth Empties out steaming hot water From a copper *** Soapy steam In the rain Alley way Side door Not much activity A girl sits looking out observing Watching the rain Smelling the warmth Rising from the bakery down below She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun The shuffling people In sunglasses New people Sun season Different apearences than the ones she knows The ones shes used to The skin foreign to her.
She likes her room With the elephants in the rug Little marchers Within the mandela sequince She likes the bakers down below Aunts and uncles Unsure of who's family By blood And who's family In spirit. She likes the old man Who sits with his cane In the little sitting chair In front of the bakery He who treats her to a cookie every now and then Or slips her a piece of sweet bread He, who wears an old black cap And puts on his coat And hobbles down the little street She waits for him sometimes She sits perched outside and looks down the street From right to left Until she hears the familiar clatter The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones Each who carry their own divine essence Or sound to which they bring A memory of her father comes to mind How differently he sounds when he walks Gentle and slow Heavy and kind Compared to her mother soft and light Swift like a feather in the wind Sweet like a berry. The girl sometimes likes rainy season more Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day In the sun When the lively noises fill her ears The wild smells When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn And the smell of fresh bread awakes her Smells of new special treats Made larger and larger Just to apeal and to please The large crowds. The sounds of bakers Yelling orders back and forth Clanging pots A madness of creation. Grand cakes Thousands of tarts Each one delicatly made with care.
When the people make extravagant delicacies When goats are roasted And fresh tomatoes Made into scrumptious sauces With fresh basil. Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks By yelling merchants The best olives in the region shouts one Across the street, the bestsest shouts another. Most spectacular Imaginative Freshest Most this Or that Yummiest Tastiest Wildest Amzingest Greatest. In her mind the images play Like moving dolls
In full vibrancy.
For a second she forgets Her placement She has returnes back to the heat And the memories Of men in white undershirts Smoking outside Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry the rest of their clothes The bantering ladies From window to window. She gets lost, until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her Jumping up Looking out the window Still silence Nothing in sight.
Drizzles of rain The sound it makes When it slides down the roofs She misses the heat Of the bustling summer day But in secret she likes the rain The silence and comfort it brings. She likes the rain and the lonliness. The solitude. the sounds of her parents sleeping Yawning. a distant kettle whistling, A neighbors. The desolatation. Patters of rain. She likes to have both seasons One season to live And the other to dream.