Verses on petrichor, cooling brickwork, and the quiet arrival of evening rain across north Indian rooftops.

Terrace Clay After the First Cloudburst

The heat had settled into the parapet like old lime,
hard and stubborn through the afternoon,
until the wind brought the smell of wet dust from the riverbeds.

First, three heavy drops on the zinc washbasin,
ringing like small brass bells,
then the sky opening all at once,
washing away the pigeon feathers and dried neem leaves.

The red clay flowerpots drink the water with a hiss.
For ten minutes, the terrace hears almost nothing
except the gutter pipes emptying into the courtyard drain.

By dusk, the rain has turned into mist.
A neighbor steps onto the wet terrace barefoot,
holding a steel tumbler warm between both hands,
watching the power lines drip against the dark.

#poetry #terraceclay #cloudburst #rain #quietverses #wordcraft

#writon