It’s filthy when it rains .. #Poetry

It’s filthy when it rains
I said,
my voice faltering
against the flagstones
on the terrace.
Mud, thick as suet
clogs my arteries,
and the harsh pelt of woe
beating the windows
like an angry mourner
makes a river
of my cheeks and chin.
I can almost smell
the gorge of puddles
looming at my feet
and the sweet bile
of soft loam rising
out of the swollen river
to claim me again.
But it will keep me guessing,
salt marsh and weeds
trapped under my foundation
and that deft chink
of lightening
left festering in the sky.

© VishalDutia