Rain after a Dry Spell

Rain after a Dry Spell

Rain fell one night in scattered drops
that plipped and plashed and marbled dust
and rustled softly over roofs
or freckled on the window pane.

About the room discussion slowed,
then died, as eyes the question asked,
while tilted heads and straining ears
investigated each new sound.

No-one was rash enough to claim
relieving rains had come, at last;
too tempting that, to fickle gods;
false hope too bitter to endure.

Brief flurries, like some feeble pulse,
sustained the thought of stronger falls
then weakened as the minutes passed
and modest hope turned to dismay.

One dying spatter, then... a squall,
a saturated, deeper sound
with smell of rain that filled the air
and smiles flowed all around the room.