Somewhere, it’s someone’s birthday.
Here it’s raining.
You can hear it raking the windows; watch
the drops hurrying through the wind across the windscreen.
It hasn’t rained for months, three at least
– so it’s special.
In a way birthdays should be.
The ground thirstily devours the first
drops, then sighs with pleasure realising it can drink its fill.
The roads are shining like new, headlights
of the cars look like torch light.
And the leaves of every tree,
And every plant
Rejoice.
It feels like their birthday.
Newborn.
New start.
New hope.
Even if the autumn, with its gift-wrapped
colours, is lurking.
Happy Birthday.
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