Washed out Wednesday

I’m not listening to the radio  
it’s just filling the blank space  
between lemon walls,  
I want to feel like this.  

My thoughts fall in droplets,  
the sound of gentle rain on the sky-light  
reminds me of caravans,  
playing cards till my head ached.  
 
I watch the garden move, the cacophony  
of a down pour darkens as wild horses,  
thunder over hedges,  
riders thrown by buffeting winds,  
hidden birds dart for cover,  
flashes of brown and buckled wings.  
 
The click of a boiled kettle  
brings me back inside to towel down.  
I blow and sip a piping hot brew  
as the soft sofa absorbs my emotion  
with a taste of hot buttered toast.  
 
I feel my ghosts leave a little  
as I tune in to the here and now,  
Katrina and the waves make me  
shuffle my feet,  
people outside in the street  
are laughing and I notice  
the rain has stopped,
my phone app says there’s a 80%
chance it’s coming back.