Celebrate the Rain

Flaming pires landmarking misery

Flanking the skies blue, are a mystery.

Dusty fires all throughout history.

And for the youth in your eyes you’ve sure seen your share

Shield hung low, for who has the strength to hold

when your arms and hands so busily employed building forts in the sand,

wouldn’t dream of building forts round their heart,

cheeks smudged with paint whilst their owner dreams up art.

Instruments gently caressed with fingers

never wondering

that tomorrow the songs won’t be of summer romance

but full of anxious sorrow

Nevertheless

arrows fly in fragile places.

People, statues,

pillars scream,

crumple, pack their cases.

Solid things turn to dust,

no sacrifice to protect from rust.

People curl up and wail in pain and never wake

to celebrate the coming of the rain.

Your heart wound stung and it’s still on the heal,

yet with no prior training you learnt to grow from what you feel.

The dust of the battlefield still knows the rhythm of your footsteps.

A shield now held in caution

is the prize of your long fought wrestle.

I see you wince when bows are released.

You aren’t afraid of the pain, she is by now your well-known foe,

but you feel each bite to new flesh- in those who do not know her.

You try to hold their hands telling them

‘they just have to hold on. The blood will cease. You’ll love again. You won’t die from this one shot.’

But they can’t see, seeing red;

the pain wishes them dead

rather than endure.

Like carbon some pieces burn

when set alight

but others shoulder pressure until they become a mirror for the light

that can take away the sorrow.

You’re the rainbows off of the diamonds angled in the sun,

a reminder of the promise that we are never forsook by One.

One always escorts us and then never leaves our side;

he already won the battle that we’re fighting deep inside,

that we’re facing every time we step outside.

He takes off all your armour and lays you down to rest,

green pastures, quiet waters because fatigue follows even the strongest

and the best.

You’re the strongest because in weakness

you didn’t curl up to be food for the birds;

you turned to the one that called you

and slipped your hand in his.

No-one can be lost, hand held by the king.

I admire so very much your shouldering of pain,

picking up so much

to put it down again

before the feet of your saviour so he can save them too.

You hurt when others suffer, but I don’t think you know another thing to do.

The smile filled with sorrow tells the stories of the war.

We watch you hold the hands of others

when your own are so so sore.

But still inside the fight,

still daily witness to the pain,

you wake up every morning and choose to celebrate the rain.