You don’t see chalk on the pavement much anymore.
My daughters used to do it outside our house and up the street with the neighbours’ children.
I was walking to school the other day to pick my daughters up when I saw some lovely pastel chalk drawings on the pavement and it took me back to when I was a kid.
So I wrote a haiku about it.
As you do.
Hopscotch in the rain.
Chalk on the pavement;
Hopscotch memories fade, in
Fine summer drizzle.
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I love the rain.
Which, when you live in a country like England, is pretty fortunate because it pisses it down all the time. (Not keen on it when it’s accompanied by a bitterly cold wind, mind.)
There’s something very cleansing and liberating about it.
That said, hearing it can be just as joyous as feeling it – the sound of rain against a Velux, or the cascading rhythm of droplets on leaves.
Where would we be without it, eh? Here’s where…
Don’t get me wrong, I love the sun, too. And I wouldn’t say no to swapping the North of England for the South of France for six months of the year.
But, let’s face it, we wouldn’t have This Green and Pleasant Land, or the Emerald Isle, (not to mention flowers and crops and animals to feed off the land), if it weren’t for a spot of rain now, would we?
Sorry, couldn’t resist. But there is some grass in the background.