I don’t like rain much now but
when I was five years old it was my favourite thing.
I thought each droplet was a little superhero,
leaping out of clouds and flying down to
save some daffodil in distress
or thirsty chicken.

I would kiss kiss kiss when it was pouring,
so any landing on my lips
had a huge welcome to earth.
I consider my first real kiss to have been with a
buxom raindrop called Priscilla.
She trickled and tickled all over my tongue and
weaved wandering between my milk teeth.
She was amazing.
I haven't forgotten you Priscilla.
Clearly, I wouldn't have brought you up if I had.
I wouldn't have been able to.

On my sixth birthday I drew myself a target for raindrops.
Inside the outer ring I wrote,
“Good aim. Well done little goose!”
In the inner ring I wrote,
“You are amazing. So accurate my little pea!”
And then there was a tiny bullseye,
too small to write anything inside.
I took the target into the garden and sat next to it.
I waited and waited with the excitement building as
the sky darkened.
Finally, the first drop fell and galloped down.
It landed, where else, dead centre!
Happy birthday!
I was so happy I shed a tear.
Then the tear and the raindrop fell in love.
I assumed the role of priest and had them
bound in holy matrimony.
Then I assumed the role of aeroplane and had them
flown to Brazil on a glittering honeymoon.

Tiny Finger Point