And the rain came.

Not the gentle drops

that drift to earth

in a West Coats shower.

Instead a deluge,

a single sheet, a torrent

that bounced on instant lakes

and sluicing side walks.

It overwhelmed roof gutters.

Down spouts gushed,

like fire hoses.

Streams, orange red,

gore from the hills.

Torn branches and stripped bark

damming storm drains;

spilling, flying, rolling, rushing,

engulfing all in its path

But with it all, warm rain,

warm air, wet bodies,

soaked to the skin

but not chilled to the bone.

Humid air easy to breath

clean leaves earthy smells.

Heavenly scents of

frangipani and jasmine.

The wet.

 
 

David Garlick, Cairns, February, 1992