The Rain Poem by Jerry Pike

The rain, tucked its trousers in its boots,
stomped up my garden,
lapped gently at the glass,
and kissed each leaf alive.
The rain sang in whispers,
in and out those spotless bluebells,
playing tic tac toe
on my slug family’s
underground terminus.
The rain built a steady pond
from path embers,
floating no-ones boat,
nor delivering the goods by barge.
The rain looked at me,
its cool smile flexing
through satin sheen windows,
pulling me out, out,
to wander barefoot across dark grass,
and play find the slug.
The rain spat some words,
dropped some hints,
luke-warmed me a reception.
It dared me to stand there,
soaking slowly through, until,
on opening my palm,
I read that familiar saying,
biroed in sweet blue ink.
Go in you idiot.