“I love the patter of rain on windows”,
my mother used to say,
though any other sounds
( frogs, dogs and cicadas )
would keep her wide awake.
I do understand now that I’m her age –
the stint at the French nunnery
must’ve done it. Grandpa’s
money, love of foreign languages.
Double-glazing for all weathers!
Though the tremors of hate in Cyprus,
would shake the foundations.
But then, what’s foreign
about the rain –
apart from being an in-betweener,
a rootless nomad, perhaps?
I mean it’s water,
but not plain. Eerie, out of thin air.