XXXVII.

“Although it was only six o'clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by its proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain and glittered under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter's rough poetry.” 

~ Théophile Gautier

Hashish, Wine, Opium


Photo credit:  ngm.nationalgeographic

XVIII.

THE FINE ART OF RAIN

"After the Rain" by Aydin Baykara

"City Rain" by Tom Shropshire

"Terrace in the Rain in Marquayrol" by Henri Martin

"Walk in the Rain" by Amare Selfu

XI.

FIREFLIES 
(Rainy Day Lovers)

by Denise Goodwin©, 2015


A fine mist greets us at the garden gate;

the gate of wrought iron lace.

And from the Heavens you'll receive a sweet

pulsing kiss of saline from the ocean's breeze;

endeavoring to rise and faithfully bow at your feet.

The incessant rain is an eternal royal procession,

a royal minstrel of liquid feet.

And in this great land of Never,

fog surrounds the shore, twice kissed. 

 A fine filigree of gauzy mist,

gives no relief,  not once, not ever.

The clouds do not envy the sun,

for they've nothing to compare.

They loose their arrows on lords and ladies,

and let them tumble down from the air.

Yet, so sweet is the love of a rainy day;

it needs no petticoat or costume.

The bees do not stop making honey,

nor do the flowers fail to blossom.


The lady bug gives naught a shrug

from under her umbrella of leaves.

They all rise to spy from vines,

into the windows of lovers true;

Boring their eyes to admire the fireflies; 

naked, in a secret rendezvous, 

they fall and rise, 

through thin curtains of blue.