We used to love the rain

We used to love the rain -
the sweet scent and dappled sound of it;
the lovely, wet clamor
on our heads and hands;
the soaking richness; the fresh green
springing up on mountain-sides
and in the soft heart
of valleys.

The whisper of light rain
told us everything we needed to know,
and a roaring plummet of downpour
sang out all the rest.
We loved the rain and ran out laughing into it.
We turned our faces up
to the deluge and danced through puddles.
So beautiful, so blessed we were -
we knew rain without fear.

Now, rain on burnt land beats drums of pain.
Unease is ashen on our tongues.
Fresh terror surges through
unhealed scars.
Gorges rise as black runnels form,
digging deeper and wider;
rushing as if hell bent;
hurtling masses
of soil and ash seaward.
Rocks tumble; boulders tremble,
then shudder and avalanche down.
Roaring in cataracts,
the world is a torrent
of sick dread;
once again, we are forced to flee.

We used to love the rain,
and even now
our sleeping hearts stir,
hearing the quiet rhythm on rooftops.
Peace lives in waking to mossy vapors
and lovely, shrouded mist.
Rain is our blood - it runs, woven with fear
through our open veins.
Pray that the rain learns to fall gently,
or that we learn
to live with its thunder
and fear not our own bodies
falling to the sea.