Gratitude is a practice
When you wake up
and it is pouring with rain in August
and instead of reaching for your phone you get up, feed the cat, cover up in waterproofs and step outside to walk the same block you have walked for years
when as you walk and the rain taps the hood of your coat, runs down your nose, soaks through your oldest walking shoes
when the puddles gather as you walk, the birds are quiet, roosting, the river is brown, rising
when you have to step into the kerb when the lorries send tidal waves
when in spite of, because of all this
you are grateful for legs that work, lungs that breathe, safety to walk alone
you remember that half of Europe burns, that parts of the world are turning desert, where people would dance and sing in praise of rain to drink, for crops, for livestock
then, then, then
is there such love for rain
for the polish it gives the green, for the cool, for the grey, for the growth, for the succulence
for the tingle as it drips from my hair
onto my skin.
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