In the stickiness under roof
the slate designed covering-
trapped short, the air, my breath, the heat,
all building before the storm.
And then it broke so gently at first,
almost hesitant, but darkening.
And with flash and bang and full cloud burst,
with each roll and fork then worsening.
The water layered to measured height,
the wet ground come a pool.
And we protected by what now seemed slight,
as the streams searched for our stool.
But finally, last gasp, last chance,
the rain itself eased off,
and though the storm held its brooding dance –
the worst passed – we all felt safe.
So out like brave, spright, troubadours,
we frolicked through the pools.
Relief that there would be no more…
yet uncertain, or we’d be fools.