A dialogue

The ticking of the clock answered
by the dripping of the rain,
the sound of water as it falls,
as it hits the leaves,
patters on the roof,
splatters on the stone,
clearing the air of dust, of heat,
of the oppressiveness that holds you
immobile on a hot summer’s evening.
The rain comes and the thunder:
a grumble and a growl from afar
heralding the arrival of great beasts
barking at the lightning
flashes that split the darkness
with their forked tongues.
Then there’s a new scent,
a fresh scent, heaven sent,
of ozone, the molecules sundered
as nitrogen seeps into the soil,
nourishes roots of grass and trees,
oxygen liberated into the atmosphere,
that same atmosphere
which so recently bore down on you
with its oppression of heat and humidity
and is lifted with the patter, the splatter,
the dripping of water from the eaves,
the elm, oak and maple leaves;
and as the storm subsides,
the spaces between raindrops become larger,
the gaps are filled in by the regular ticking
of the clock.

Limerick for a poet with writer’s block

A poet kept eyeing the clock,
Afflicted with bad writer’s block.
       As the minutes ticked by,
       He let loose a sigh,
Then decided to go for a walk.