Passports and Paintbrushes

Irish Dance

The rain thumps loudly on the wooden deck
To the beat of nature’s drum, building and building
In a crescendo of clean, wet sound.
It’s cadence reminds me of the tip tapping of dance shoes
On the TV program I watch inside
From my worn-in armchair.

The dancers click their heels loudly on the wooden stage,
Twirling in a clear, concise rhythm
To the beat of bagpipes pouring soft music
Outside on the windowsill.

My time as a dancer echoes in my ear,
How I used to make the rain flow with my agile movements,
Beckoning mother nature to come near.
I would flick my feet swiftly, drenched in sweat,
Determination condensing in thick droplets on my brow.

And just as quickly as it came, the rain leaves.
I switch off the TV and sit back,
With nothing but my memories to drown out the silence.