Paddington Writers

The Call

1:45 am;
a phone rings from a house somewhere in the street;
a bright insistent chirp.

I peek outside
but nothing stirs,

no clue to place it;

everything grave still.

Just rows of impenetrable black windows

soliciting taciturn suburban mysteries.

The ring continues its plea
like an frantic electric bird,
echoing down the street
bouncing off the walls.

Who is it?
She’s stopped breathing?

What do they want?
His heart has flooded?

Is this the type of call that ignores
ungodly hours and convention,
to announce in flat estuary

another disconnection?

Burdened bloated clouds
unload a mesmerising volume of droplets
in a steady deluge;
creating capillary waves as they impact
dirty pools full of fallen brethren.
Others shatter onto unyielding surfaces,
or glide down glass to combine and form vertical estuaries.

This rain perfectly echoes my laden thoughts,
as they reluctantly descend from gloomy recesses in my mind
to filter and manifest through the imagery
and silent language of thought.

I’m reminded how weather acts as a mirror to the human heart,
but is too often used as lazy metaphor for differing states of mind.

I especially love rainfall though,
as it discourages most men from walking around in
unsightly shorts and sandals,
placing natural prohibitions on our outdoor ambitions
and what we can pursue when we’re outside.
Rain is romantic too,
providing lovers opportunity to
explore affection in detail
under improvised shelter.