I love the rain.  We had a few thunderstorms, last week.  One afternoon, just as I lighting sparked into my room and I heard the thunder drumroll, I grabbed my mac, and rushed out into the street, towards the Thames.  The drops were getting fatter and heavier, and I turned up my collar to stop them sneaking their cold fingers into the back of my neck.  They were drumming little ripples in the grey river water, and I could hear their light tapping sounding increasingly urgent on the tree leaves.  I turned my face up towards the leaden sky, welcoming the cold, hard drops on my face.  The icy wind chilled my wet cheeks.  A flash of lightning grinned at me from behind the trees across the river.  Thunder cracked a threat.  I laughed.  There is something wildly exhilarating about thunderstorms.  The more violent they are, the more I feel as though they have come to boot out the old, to make way for the new.  I had a cat who would sit on the windowsill during thunderstorms and, each time lightning flashed, she lifted her paw in an attempt to catch it.

I also love steady, all-day rain.  The kind that sets a gentle, introspective rhythm.  Ideal for listening to Herbert Howells, a Bach Cantata, or music for Anglican evensong.  You know that once this rain has stopped, the air will be fresh, and everything will have a clear, revitalised scent.  The lawns will be a more vivid green, the sky an uncompromising blue.

Then there is the light, powdery drizzle that is now seldom seen in England.  The kind of rain that does not require an umbrella.  It curls your hair and makes your skin smooth and soft.

It is raining now.  A slow, gentle rain, tapping regular beats on my window panes.  Occasionally, it pauses, and sunlight peers through the gap in a cloud.  It lights up the droplets on my window panes, like burning diamonds, almost blinding me.

© Scribe Doll