The rains

The clouds are of a grey so neutral they could define the term. They are the colour of a poker face, void of both warmth, cruelty, indeed any expression. They are free of complexity and nigh on free of texture and definition as they hide both sun and moon from our drenched skins and questioning eyes. They mask the face of heaven and invade the world like a soupy mist, so close you could almost inhale their contents, but one need not inhale as the contents find their way into your skin, your eyes and your moth soon enough. It is so wet that the skin on your fingers wrinkles and whitens from under shelter in mere anticipation of the fall. In this place rain is as reliable as change and as certain as death.

Uncompromising, engulfing and nigh on constant, Heaven's drainpipe rests above us shrouded in glowing white soup that cannot threaten as their threat is almost always being realised. There is no warning in the sky, no suggestion in the wind and no hint in the ever moist air. It starts, and finishes, and starts again like the whim of a spoiled but powerful child that seeks to flush away the world that has done it some unquenchable harm.

An almost infinite amount of single, invisible points manifest and follow their path towards our rock shielded by their size until they are almost upon us, finally taking form just feet above our heads or in the presence of headlights or a lonely streetlamp. When lit form the side and combined with its windy companion, it forms sheets as the minute beads roll into and off of each other in a frantic and chaotic dash to join their comrades that cut away at the earth. United in our world their laziness shifts and forms lumbering streams and searching tendrils that reshape our place. An endless escalator of glistening rungs rolls down a palm tree before melting into a river that flows where the path to my front door used to be. The rain is the landlord of this country and we are no more that a string of expendable renters who live in its house.