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Petrichor by Donna Gowland

Rain.
Sharp and direct as an arrow
Speckling grey pigeon slate.
Keeps shape like an Olympic diver,
Glides gracefully through the air,
Ripples anticipate its landing.
Disperses, before it is caught,
into something familiar,
tear drops of new hope.
It clings to the air
Like an insult,
Or a kind word.