Rain of Thought

The clouds were hanging above the city like freshly washed clothes. Everything was dripping with grey and gardens of black umbrellas bloomed every morning as the people hurried to work. The creaking of wellingtons, the whooshing of the raincoats’ wings and the rhythmical drumming of the raindrops on the tin hats of rubbish bins resembled the sound of a symphony orchestra. Nobody had seen the sun for months and it was a small wonder if you could find your nose in the thick, milky fog. So most people did not realise that emptiness was spreading at the spot where the bright emperor of the sky used to hold court. The people slowly forgot it had once been different. It had been better. The constant water washed down their past into the canals. It seemed unimaginable that once the damp walls had worshipped the sunlight with the same zeal as they did the rain these days. There was only one window that didn’t let the water wash away her memories. She still remembered. The warm kiss of the light on her glass. The days when the horizon was blue. The window, when she closed her curtains at night, dreamt of hope.