Dirty Weather

This is a bit of prose I wrote when it was close on midnight, and pouring outside. My Great-Grandmother always used to refer to rain as: "Dirty weather"... :)

Midnight rain. Water falling from black sky; countless droplets landing on sodden earth. Plashing on dark streets all over Christchurch, making streams that run down the gutters, gush into drains. Soil, already water-logged, refuses more rain, creating puddles on the lawns. Trees stand strong, their network of roots gripping the ground, sucking moisture. Drops of rain dance on their myriad of glistening leaves, bounce off, fall to earth. Rivers grow, spilling their banks, reach in waves to the quiet streets.
Dawn. Slanted lines of rain are visible now, tattooing the neighbour's roof and the glossy back of a blackbird, perched cheekily on the fence. The glittering green of rose leaves and hydrangea, and the cheerful orange of the bird's beak are the only spots of colour in this gray world.
Suddenly, silence. Anticipation.

Muddy under-bellies of heavy clouds define the sky, loom and crouch, as though waiting to show their power. The change is rapid. Gentle, pearly dawn has given place to this stonger force which casts a hard silver light on the land and spreads inky fingers of cloud over the sky. Strange, ethereal light penetrates the sky, colouring it a blurry purple, falls on plants and sparkles on the beads of rain they collected.
Culmination.
Even with this warning the crash of thick rain is unexpected. It drums in heavy lines on the metal roof, thunders with growing pressure on the drowning streets.

Satisfying.