Baptism

I've laid slate chips down in the front garden, yesterday it rained and I wrote this

Baptism

The rain will wash the slates clean
Of this we can be sure
As thunder marks what has been
And lightning keeps the score
Counting after rumbles
We hear distance close
Events we tried and fumbled
In hindsight, they're disclosed
Disclosed amidst the torrent
The tempest that ensues
Slates chalky grey abhorrent
That the sun has massed, accrues
Gathered in the sunlight
In ignorance, eschewed
Fast approaching midnight
The storm it is renewed
With the hope of joyous dancing
In the freshness of the rain
After blows spent, glancing
In clouds we hide the pain
But when we let the cloud burst
And dreams distill away
It’s reality we all thirst
It’s the fantasy that’s grey
An area, we’re unsure
A veneer, dusty shroud
Underneath we’re marked, sore
Just waiting for the cloud
To clean our slates bruised purple
We wash back to a plum
And so begins the circle
As the final storm it comes
Arrives to cleanse the crime scenes
This distinctly human curse
The rain will wash the slates clean
For better or for worse