A solar wind caresses the mighty oceans blue,
Creates the waves, stirs the hearts of the true.
The spirit leaves the sea and floats on high,
To gather the dreams that make poets sigh.
When they reach saturation they at last take flight,
In search of lovers, adrift in the darkest of night.
Each dream a raindrop that freefalls though time,
Each drop a perfection, each dream sublime,
A prism to the soul or perhaps an angel’s tear,
As it floats and drifts, through the atmosphere.
Its colour and shape so clear and fragile,
Yet set on its course despite all the toil.
To replenish the land, refresh us each and all,
Oblivious to their beauty as they tumble freefall.
Each bead of perfection races to shatter,
On the land, its people and all that matter.
To wash the dry soil, to cleanse the city,
To grow the crops, dull the gritty.
Yet fail to heed its might and splendour,
When it can destroy, kill and can render.
There’s sorrow in those raindrops, so to glee,
It’s visible in its beauty-beast so plain to see.
As it gives life as it dies, a true resurrection,
The raindrop can certainly be a cruel perfection.
Copyright © Seosamh De Burca | Year Posted 2013