The Tearstained Window

A summer rain arrived, unwelcome, cold and unannounced, Spattering softly then louder, as if a hidden tiger had pounced. I stared out of the window pane as the world turned silver-black, With distorted reflections of lights from the thunder flash and crack. A face stares back from the window, captured in each rain bead, Like a fragmented, displaced reflection of a soul clinging to a need. They wriggle down the window pane, as if searching for a course, Like a hidden memory surfacing, loosening a mighty natural force. Each bead a broken part of me or perhaps a fragment of my soul, As it clings to the window pane, fighting and crashing as they roll. Some they merge together as lover warriors against the world, But they tumble fall to nothing as more raindrops are unfurled. They softly flow away together, their identities lost from view, Leaving the world so refreshed, fragrant as early morning dew An order and a reason, portrayed so assured and so intense, Rests behind its demeanour, its nature, is not an offence. What of the different parts of me that are lost upon the pane? They are washed away to nothingness and purified by the rain!