Q34:1-4. ‘Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

and make me travel forth without my cloak,
to let base clouds ore-take me in my way,
Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke.’

I love the sound of rain. A good shower of rain starts with the wind: a cool breeze announces the approaching spatters, barely negligible at first, prompting the upturned palm and ‘is that rain?’ like comments. Slowly the sound of drops hitting everything getting closer, and bam, you’re wet and on the way to soaking. Up above the sky is black and tempestuous, the breeze becomes a soggy gale, with stinging sheets slices of an angular gushing wind.

The storm busies itself around your ears, leaves get lashed like percussion instruments, or singularly impetuously dash headlong into a watery grave. And when the water is streaming from your face and melting your clothing to your body’s form, and you think you can’t take its force or closeness any more! it starts to quiet down, leaving as gradually or suddenly as it came. The clouds become whiter and open, revealing a cold sun and blue skies. And the rain drips and dries on your face.

This latter, this generically-created, conceit of a storm, here above, is from my memories of specific showers and storms playing their symphonic pitter-patter on my senses in various latitudes and longitudes. But of course it is also a little metaphorical drama.

The goal is to see the beloved (the sun), as promised by the beloved. The beloved is not alone, or especially there for you alone, and is in fact surrounded by sychophants and moochers and other undesirables to your desire (the clouds). The rain we will take as tears for this situation and frustration at not reaching the goal of the day. Insults may dart and fly, and shame, humiliation and acute-embarassment are the result.

Sometimes apologies aren’t enough.