Not in the pattern of the rain

Not in the pattern of the rain

With its oil skin stream

Splashed up by trucks

And cars,

Engulfing the windscreen,

Over worked wipers,

Working in unison.

Standing water

Running down hill

Lifting wheels off the ground

Sending tails into a spin

And causing mayhem.

Nor was it in a dream,

A slip and sliding

Whimsical delight which

Drifts into the realm

Of fear and flight,

When all that was, is lost

And never found,

Even in the searching.

Neither were you

Standing at the door,

Big brown eyes wide open

Full of expectation

Waiting for your children,

Running out to meet the car

With an umbrella,

To compensate for

Their summer wear

So ineffective in the rain.

No, you were not there,

And yet, I saw you

Hiding in bold silhouette,

Smiling through the

Changing contours

Of your daughter’s face

The shape and proportions

Of her nose.

You were there

In the timbre of your son’s voice,

The questions he asked

With that same cheeky grin

And open curiosity.

As I always do.

A comfort and reminder

Of your absence.

But still a pleasure,

For in the moment you are there,

All is set fair with the world.

And for that reason

I need to look at them

Over and over again,

To bathe in the reality

Of their presence

And so I can be sure

It is true,

That today,

In my Grand children

I really did see you.