Just a Cliche

Although it's a well worn cliche, there is something soothing in the thought of lying in bed listening to rain. Last night I was front row in a symphony. An adagio of soft fall, murmurings on a metal roof and whispers running along gutters. Calm in the tempo of raindrops, muted gargles and gulps echoed inside the throats of downpipes. Then everything changed. A quickening pace heralded heavy rain and hailstones falling in a roar of wind. Lightning flashed behind curtains, thunder drew nearer, giant, swollen bags of noise burst to come crashing down, rattling windows and sending the spill rushing through doorways into tense rooms. Heaven unleashed its might, as if trying to tear itself away from this world, as it still does, weighted with words and held here on a page, longing to lift into song with drum rolls and tremble in a crescendo fit for a thousand voices, straining to break free and fly somewhere else, finding itself stuck in a poem, slowly drifting towards sleep and oblivion.