After months without,
it comes unapologetically —
greying skies had been hinting a couple of days,
the wind adding its signal of change,
dry ground licking its lips in anticipation,
believing reward for good behaviour, resilience and fruitful labour
was soon due.
of faithful watering throughout the Summer,
viewed by plants as discriminatory and laced with ignorant bias,
are swept into history as the whole region is soaked,
generating gasping hours of sensual bliss
across the landscape.
In the garden
delicate petals of a second flowering
of roses are hurled onto the hammered ground
during the grand finale of a massive tropical deluge.
Suddenly it stops, like a passing motorcade - gone;
and sounds of glistened dripping fill the air.
I step outside to smell the moment,
that once-a-year reminder of salvation’s cycle,
and pick up some petals
arrange them mandala-like on an old plate
where they lie in state
before being buried back
into the wet