A poem about one of my favourite things.
Pitter-patter
This pitter-patter
of tiny feet,
Splashes down our cobbled
path
To stop outside
the door and stamp,
Eager to be let
into the warm.
Ignored, small
hands drum windows,
Over and over, in
a hard rhythm,
Then peter out
into lightness.
Just a few drops
bounce off the glass
To scurry in dribbling
rivulets.
The storm, so
brutal, loses its edge.
This summer rain
slows, spilling,
Floods the senses
with ripening green,
Washing,
cascading, dripping down, down.
Copyright Vickie
Johnstone, July 20, 2020
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