Haibun on a Raindrop

A raindrop in a cloud thinks that’s life, floating there in sagacious blue, fraternising with other raindrops and the blessing of the sun. Floating there on the ratty, tatty edge of nothing at all. Not knowing of rain. Not knowing of its imminent fall.

Then, quite suddenly, there’s swirling and grinding and the cloud’s in a hurling. The raindrop is tumbled, such swiftness of temper. Voice gruff as dolomite, thunder comes raging and all around is the big sound of tearing. Lightning’s foul stripping, clouds ripped and dripping and then the inevitable tipping.

And now truth is the way of a zipper, an arrow of downness, a splatter like bird turd. The raindrop is haggard and tattered and more just a smear on the smut of the pavement. Feeling abandoned, jettisoned, weepy, the poor little droplet is sagged out and seepy.

                    blossoms fall
         as spring’s coil stretches
              summer’s trees are full of gone

18 thoughts on “Haibun on a Raindrop

    1. I pondered this comment as I walked this morning. And I thought of how a stitch makes a part of knitting. And I pictured the cloud unraveling – the pull of gravity’s thread. And I wondered too if you watched a cloud for long enough – perhaps with some time lapse photography – could you see it shrink? A garment undone? I fear you have inspired another poem.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Bob. I love it when I’m half way through a piece of writing and then something happens in my life – completely irrelevant – but somehow it gives me the ending I need. I said to my daughter “I went out to tell your brother it’s bed time and he’s gone. Daddy’s gone. And the Fiat’s gone. The garage is full of gone.” And there it was. My ending. But don’t worry. They all returned in due course.

      Liked by 1 person

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