The city is moody in the rain. Smudged with paintbrushes rinsed with earth-specked water. Darkened curtains, drooping, hang at the edges of the day. Waiting to close, waiting to bring an end to the glowering, furrowed-brow skies.
The clouds group like warriors, black in the middle, holding fistfuls of water. ‘We’ll show you who’s boss,’ they shout to the people below them, scurrying, fearful of the sky churning like river water.
The concrete and glass, oppressive in the heat and the dust, offers solace when the heavens decide to cleanse the earth. The people run into office blocks and train stations, peering out as Mother Nature laughs at their feebleness.
But there is prettiness too. The skies are pink and white, flecked with sable, swelling as if from a bodice like a dress fashioned by Dior. People comment on the colours, expecting grey. The pinks straighten their shoulders, the white beckons, reminiscent of sunshine as they flee from the raindrops hitting the ground like ripened stone fruit.