I was out in it, sheltered, of course, though a few drops found their way onto me.
I was looking at Kampala, and as it rained I started penning. Something. Maybe you will like it, maybe not, but it is here.
Cloud of rain, grey, heavy, misty;
descending to touch, hug the city;
Kampala, shrouds in rain,
hugged close to scrub, rinse, scrub;
deluged in water, rinsed,
the few drowned, unlucky, many sheltered;
shivering, beneath heavy outpour-
To lift, a moment, city scrubbed clean;
air- rinsed, filtered, wet, cold ‘n clear
afternoon sun presents her smiling face-
rain-cloud gone, city steaming, wreathed
in steam, ‘n rain ‘n sun, ‘n green
Only Kampala the beautiful
has driving, washing rain the half hour,
the other half, city’s wreathed in golden sun ‘n steam-
rain-cloud mist a memory
the other side of the hills;
the air clean, washed, breathing, life’s dream blooming bright.
Kampala the same half hour;
driving rain ‘n broiling sun mix ‘n separate;
heady cocktail to daze the mind.
Dunno. Looks better after heavy editing. May do. Maybe.
A good evening to you!