Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Looks like rain

Sometimes it just comes as if from nowhere,
The rain.
Both a translucent veil falling over the window of our vision,
And an equaliser in the truest sense of the word.

It caught him by surprise.
Standing by the bus stop,
Tapping his toe gently,
Waiting for a bus destined to arrive late.

The rainfall hits him,
He doesn't move,
Only shifts his head upward in a look of acknowledgement.
Like seeing an old acquaintance in the street,
Unexpected but inevitable.
Nor does he shift a mere three steps to avoid it,
He shuns the cover offered by the shelter.
Instead he accepts the rain, embraces it.

The young couple sitting on the bench in the shelter look at him,
Curious and bemused.
They will later
(In the sanctuary of their studio flat)
Wonder over his motivation.
Is he taking the rain like a mild purgatory,
Feeling the echoing needles of water hit his head,
Like judgmental spears of penance?
Is he letting the waves of precipitation wash over him,
Cleansing him literally and metaphysically?

There is a look on his face.
Not fear, not beseeching self-pity,
Not anger.
Yet no smile on his mouth,
Nor wistful nostalgia in his eyes.
Grey as the clouds from whence comes
The rain.

The couple will wonder,
Look, gauge and analyse the lines on his face.
But it's like they're outside,
Looking into his perplex cubicle of isolation.
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."