Wet concrete when the rain has come,
reminds me that our tower blocks
will someday succumb to the same force
that kisses earth and coaxes
gentle blades of grass to grow,
part the soil and reach towards the now grey sky.
The clouds are teased apart
by the harp strings of the sun,
playing songs to call the droplets back,
that put cracks between the brickwork as they pass
and melodies to make the new grass sway.
I am the failed and fulfilled potential found
in every drop of rain.