It was raining on the day
we first met and the sky a lovelorn grey.
The smell of wet leaves
reminds me of our first kiss,
flavoured by raindrops falling
from the branches that failed
to shelter us from summer showers.
The dissonant rhythm
of a thunderstorm was reflected
in our first clumsy attempts
at making love. Cold rain
against her bedroom windowpane.
When I first suggested marriage,
the sky grew overcast
and seemed to frown in disapproval.
So we never had the courage
to get wed; we joked
that neither of us knew how to swim.
And yesterday, the river burst
its banks. Don't ask.
