In the rain

Rain, rolling up eastward from Bristol, hurried
After the train. Travelling towards you…

Alan Ross ~ A Following Rain

Anticipation burns a hole
in patience. The measured miles
of line stretch ahead, all along the length
of hours. My back to the engine, I’m backtracking
on intent, a reverse pull when I came this way,
before, leaving you behind. Attention drifts

To the window, to a myriad sparkling polka-dots
late afternoon rain with the sun warming, lighting,
drying- but still more fall, larger drops than before
a playful tug-of-weather-war and I’m tugged
further back to a song of youth’s heyday:
I want to know
Have you ever seen the rain
Comin’ down on a sunny day

We pass a field of sunflowers, not a hippie vision
but a kind of triffid agricrop lifting burnished
thirsty heads. For now nimbus clouds have triumphed
strafing the sky, they gather momentum, puff
a greyscale palette over quick-change landscapes.
Through bleary illuminations, I see towns slip past
the carriage windows running with rivulets
sideways, upwards even. Gravity’s defied

in this high-speed rush. Across my reflection
thoughts flicker, doubts stir, questions arise
about our meeting after all. I’m left wondering too
if it’s wise, if old habits do persist
so that at the long-awaited station
you’ll have kept me waiting, yet again
in the rain.

[*Credence Clearwater Revival – Have you ever seen the rain ~ 1970]

After a record-breaking warm dry May, it's refreshing to join Sarah's Poetics prompt: Rain 


Once we wore white petticoats
pretty broidered frills
red ones were for cancan girls
and all such naughty thrills
advancing adolescence saw us
slink into silk slips
hands that lingered longingly
over breast and hips
surfing all the curved preserves
of honeymoon hors d’oeuvres

A 44 word ditty that borders on the burlesque with Linda's quadrille prompt: Slip

the Box Room

The box room was always full of dust
it settled in between the pillars of assorted trunks
piles of coloured cases all stored aboard
like us children for long stretches of school term.
I loved the smell of it, the grime of years penetrating
deep into wood panels and the way particles flew fairy-like
each time another box was stacked, tiny motes lit by the one
small attic window. Here was an Aladdin’s cave
of far away places, baggage stuck with colourful labels
foreign countries I knew only from my stamp album
and the pink-filled world map of a sun-setting Empire.

My trunk was post-box red with leather corners
loitering in the silent dark like a forgotten go-between
’til at term’s end the room was suddenly flung open
for a scrabble and scramble invasion
luggage laughingly located, lugged and slid
down the inclined ramp, owners following
gymslips flying, regardless of splinters
we packed feverishly, flinging possessions pell-mell
anticipating the haulage truck’s arrival, and away
our baggage would go, before us, homeward bound.

The box room vacant again, its dust unperturbed
and the ghost trapped within, sighing amongst spiders.

A plain and simple poem from me for a change and one for my Poetics Prompt : Room(s)