The Rain

The day is done
Silently preparing my home for bedtime
I hear a sound so soft
it's barely audible.
Listening intently, I recognise the sound
of rain
as it falls softly from the night sky
onto my patio below.
It brings with it a sense of security and warmth
as I tiptoe from the room and climb the stairs to the sanctity of my bedroom.
Gazing through my bedroom window
I marvel at the transformation
the weather has made to the familiar view;
as the darkened picture takes on a look of saturated wetness.
The onyx road sparkles as the rain continues to fall
and bounces noisily onto the hard surface.
Leaves surrender and yield under the weight of the continuous onslaught of raindrops.
Puddles soon form
welcoming childen's tiny feet and eager birds
wanting to play.
But there are no children,
for they are tucked in their beds.
I think of those whose beds are made of concrete
Whose duvets are made of cardboard.
Whose homes are shop doorways.
The rain I find so comforting
is their tormentor
and it makes me sad
Life is so cruel.