POEM: UNDER EAVES

UNDER EAVES

It’s night and rain pours down.

An orchestra of tin drums

sounds along the eaves-trough

while a steady stream of gloved applause

echoes from the roof above.

Rain by the window.

Soft, staccato sounds tap out wet rhythms

on the cloth of leaves outside.

Gusts of rain swirl against the walls of the house

in a liquid dance.

The hissing of rain on stone, on pavement;

the soft hissing of rain though the air.

Later, thunder, muted and distant.

It’s low drumming rolls across

the flat, violet landscape.

And the silences become longer

before and after the crash of lightning

as the storm recedes in the distance.

The air is hushed, cool and electric.

At last, brick walls, plaster and glass,

with blankets and pillows within.

A radio is on, the voice,

crackling with static,

says good night.

“Good night,” he says.

It’s a good night for sleeping.

WOW! I JUST STUMBLED ACROSS THIS ONE looking for something else to add to this blog. I wrote it in the 'aughts', but it comes from a memory some fifty plus years ago, when I was young. I remember the great thunder storms that blew across the flat farming lands surrounding the city where I grew up. We lived near the outskirts of town. It was just a three-minute bicycle ride to be out past the golf course and onto gravel roads and cornfields. But it was the sense of security I had at that time that I remember most. Outside my bedroom the blowing wind and rain and thunder were made muted and distant by the walls of our house.

     At the time I shared a room with my father, who would always read his Reader's Digest while listening to the radio before sleep. The voice that says "Good night" in the poem is his. And this poor composition of mine is my humble tribute to him. He kept his family safe for so very long.  Thanks Dad.

Cheers, Jake

My father, my aunt (holding me or my sister) and my mother