rain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Show me the rain and I will show you that which fills the holy grail, for without the cloud given water it is only a cup. Yet with these drops that come to greet the earth with the splendour of their music and the sensation of flow, is the feeling of joy - not the elevated and loud happiness of the rave, but the sweet serenity of a loving quiet purpose.
If the rain is one drop it is millions, cascading from a confident sky. It is the sort of weather that washes everything anew, bringing deep puddles into which children splash. And in that happy congregation of water and air, is the sense of being alive, that from such beautiful simplicity comes everything we love, the flora, the fauna, the very essence of nature.
Here come the drops steady and soft, falling from a sky of white velvet. They come altogether and yet as pioneers. And though I am soon quite wet, I have the joy of the leaves, of everything that makes the world so green.
In late summer the Earth is ready for the rains, for sweet drops to quench the soils. It is then that the pitter patter returns to the woodlands, simple water to bring nature's magic. The pathways strengthen from a dusty brown to deep mahogany, reviving a healthy glow I've longed to see return. Summer foliage has it's time, the green canopy to give shelter when it's needed, yet this is beauty also, the heaven-given promise seasonal changes fulfilled.
The rain brings a richness to each hue, the browns deepen in a way that soothes my heart, brings a steadiness to my soul. The grass becomes glossy, reflecting the light, a new bright shine to their wands, softly waving in the breeze. This rain brings a freshness, each drop a heaven-given gift for each part of creation. I raise up my hand, tilt my face toward the sky, feeling water and sunshine together. As I do, a song stirs within, one that feels as if it means "thank you" and "love" all at once. Perhaps this is joy, a happiness that feels pure.
We have these autopilot submarine tankers. They go to where the sea-storms are and collect the rain, a funnel filling the underwater tank. Then they go to where the fresh water is needed... and it's all done with clean technology. We still do desalination, but this is easy and there's no point in letting all that clean water just fall in the ocean.
The rain comes, oblivious to the life it gives. It washes the world, quenching soil and the life whom depend upon it. In either warmth or coldness, sunlight or moonlight, rain comes, humble to its role. In this almost-spring afternoon, it is the percussion to the birdsong and the bringer of brightness to every hue of bark and leaf.
Rain floats in gentle waves, as if gravity is a soft music from the Earth, a sweet beckoning serenade. Each drop bequeathes itself unto the cooling air - wet lifeboats in a dry sea. Together they paint a new picture around a glowing streetlamp. Light streams into the rich blue, as if seeking the sun, as if it is a song to the moon - and in those sacred drops it blooms into a star like those above. Sarah smiles, because in that moment, the water and the light have become a golden flower, an echo of life bursting into the night.
The pitter patter of the rain creates a shield around me. I love the rain, I always have. The silver puddles create an obstacle course that only the bravest of us battle. The sky is grey today, I mean everything is some form of grey, it always has been on days like this. I sometimes wonder what colour things are when it's raining. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe there is only black and white and different shades of in between. That ‘in between’ the space of wonder, of mystery, is a place that I love. I wonder what goes on outside my world of grey on rainy days.
I pulled the black hood over my saturated form as I saunter in the soft rain, small pellets of water spitting on my hands as the remainder of the drops quench the scattered puddles decorating the asphalt. Through one of the pools of rainwater, the familiar flash of police sirens are brought to my attention. I manage to lift my head up just a bit.
Just as a drop of crystal-clear water appeared on my fragile skin, I smiled to myself. The rain was something that stopped my thoughts from buzzing, calmed me, but at the same time excited me. The waves of the salty liquid washed the pavement creating a melancholic song. Waiting for the rain to wash all of the misery away, I stood there, my gaze burning into the horizon, staring at the beauty of the upcoming storm and the crying clouds.
The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling my skin on contact. The path through the park is muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles that hide the ruts of dryer weather. To feel it isn't enjoyment, not fun like the gentle sunshine of springtime, yet it is a part of life and I want to feel it just the same. I want to experience each drop, together and apart, same and different. I want to see the droplets soaking my eyelashes before they join their brethren on the ground like saltless tears. I need to be in this, chaotic and wild, just like my mind and soul - like nature looked right into me and pulled the weather out.
Rain falls in crazy chaotic drops, the gusting wind carrying them in wild vortices one moment and in diagonal sheets the next. It runs down my face as a thin layer, not as cold as it will be when November comes, but without the warmth of summer showers.
Rain falls like it means to wash us away, like it means to keep hammering until we smudge like a Monet masterpiece. It sounds like the heavens are knocking on our door, roof and window panes. Today is a day of inescapable wetness, even as I sit to watch the downpour errant drops fall in the fireplace.
Rain falls like God's own poetry; each drop is a single letter in a song that takes eons to sing. It has always been music, always called to me in ways I cannot explain. When the patter of the drops tumbles from grey skies the melody brings serenity no matter the chaos in my life. Rain. Blessed rain.
The rain that falls this November is so different from the months we've just had. Before the drops were so ambient, all they brought was wetness. The blessings from the clouds alight on my skin with the coldness of the season ahead. There is a point where the autumn takes on more of a wintry feel and for me this is it. The summery half is spent. I tilt my head to the graphite sky and let the cold water cover my skin. Pushing back winter is as pointless as wishing the tide not rise up sands on a summers day.
Rain beads the broken paintwork of the cars and bounces from every hard surface. The sound comes from every direction except down and the storm drains bubble with grey-brown run-off. For once the weather man got it right, fifty millimetres by noon.
Rain washes my face of the sweat and dirt, droplets clinging to the false lashes I put on for the mission. I can't think what my "tell" was and it doesn't matter right now. This summer storm will help to wash my scent from the path and hide my prints. I pray that the rain stays heavy, it is for now the only friend I have in this woodland.
Rain and tears mingle on my face, salty tracks blending into the fresh sky-fallen trickles. Only the pinkness of my eyes gives any clue to my sadness and in this city who will look closely enough to tell. There is a heaviness to my woollen coat that was absent when I left the hospital, in just a few blocks it will weigh no less than if I had swum home rather than walked.
Even the rain glows neon in the downtown lights, falling from winter chilled clouds that blot out the last of the sunset. For the down and outs it means sheltered spots will be at a premium tonight...
Intermingled with the ashes that still swirled was the rain. It fell just the same as pristine drops to spring grass, but what was left to drink it in? The black charr with its grey "snow" settled into a matt layer, darker, flatter. Rain above, destruction below, our torn hearts in-between and tears that did nothing but add to the dampness - there wasn't a person in fifty that wasn't sleep walking through it all.
Rain fell on the mean streets and the executive homes just the same. There was no greater equalizer than mother nature and from the low slung cloud she exploded with pent up fury. Wind whipped the frigid drops, sending them hurtling in every direction but straight down.
There is an intense anxiety to the rain, as if between the tumbling cloud and the earth it is fearful of never reaching its destination. The sound alone is enough to make me pace the dusty boards, arms folded across a chest that rises and falls more abruptly than it should. The sound of this rain, so soothing to some, is enough to drown out every other noise. There are no cars, no machinery from the docks and certainly no birds. Should the phone ring now I doubt it would cut through...
The rain fell softly as if it knew of the hardships both behind and ahead. Each droplet alighted on her skin with just enough coolness too command her mind to the present, to pull her away from the pain of the past and the uncertainty of what was to come. The beads over her face, more numerous than even the freckles in her skin, joined to wash over her in a delicate cascade of trickles. She raised her eyes to the grey layer that touched every mountain top, there was more to come before the skies cleared, of that she could be sure.
Raining skies, hissing tires on blackened streets and leaves that droop on the bowed branches - that's the day that awaits beyond the door that lets in a steady cold draught. The weather man speaks of "precipitation," to me it's simply horizontal droplets that make an umbrella almost pointless. Before the string of my raincoat is drawn tight about my face I can already feel the dampness in my bones and a coldness that creeps over my skin. I sneeze. It isn't the kind that means it's time to do the dusting, cute and kitten-like; it's the kind that means my first winter virus is in my system, all booted up and ready to go.
People talk of the rain as a steady sound or else a gentle "pitter patter," but to me raindrops on the dry verandah crackle like an old radio coming to life. They hit hard, no brakes, no slowing for the impact of the ground. Only after the dry dusty planks have a new watery sheen does the sound soften.
In that alien landscape our vocabulary was forced to expand. Take the rain for example; back home it was just "torrential", "drizzle" or "mist". Here there a so many types and it's crucial to know which one is coming. There are fine mists that freeze on contact with any exposed skin, so cold that the tissue is burnt. There is a kind of driving hail that is enough to pit the skin and make the scalp bleed. And of course, my favourite, the poison rain that renders our water barrels undrinkable. It took sometime to figure out how to predict each one, we had to postpone other essential projects to analyse the data, collect samples, measure the wind. Now these new words are a part of our daily lives, they dictate when we may venture out of the old spacecraft husk and when we must busy ourselves in it's cramped quarters.
Rain battering roof like a hail of bullets, rain hammered down, wall of water, smudges of light, tumult of the storm, rain-lashed, brief and sudden showers, driving rain, rain blurred window, rain hammering on the window like the relentless drumming of nails. Rain-laden air, rain trickling into her eyes, rain the size of olive pits thundered onto the windows, a chilly haze of rain spread into late November.
It is no longer twilight, we are swallowed in such a blackness that we cannot see even a hand in front of a face, let alone our sodden feet on the rutted path. In this deprivation of light our skin is all the more sensitive to the freezing rain. It does not pound or sting, but alights on our faces like soft kisses of ice and runs down to drip from our jaws that are clenched tight to prevent the chattering of teeth. This steady rainfall has gone on for much of the day and we will have to wait until the sunrise to see the cloud cover, only then will we know what the new day will bring.
The rain hit her skin like it would go right through and the water washed the street like a river would rise. Beneath the sound of the city traffic, Emily couldn't hear her own footfalls. She was so completely wet and numb that did she didn't feel the splashing of the vehicles or the wind that blew so hard that the litter swirled into the air like the poor relations of autumn leaves. The streets passed in a frigid blur, she wasn't heading for home, but for an old place everyone said was haunted. Only last year just the idea had scared her senseless, but now she felt drawn to it, it was the only place to go. It still had a roof and the windows were unbroken, even the local druggies steered clear.
Soon, it began sprinkling. Little droplets of water drenched her hair, skin, and dress. The water droplets began growing larger and falling frequently. The light ‘pitter patter’ of rain turned into wet thuds as the icy water raced to meet the ground. The sprinkling turned into a torrential downpour. The coldness seeped through her gauzy gown and chilled her skin. Truffle’s hooves were sloshing through the thick, slushy mud. The clouds grew darker and darker. A flash of lightning spooked the horse. Sapphira held Truffle’s neck firmly and whispered words of comfort. The bone-chilling cold seemed unbearable in the howling wind and icy rain. The sound of thunder rolled through the area as another lightning bolt split the sky.
I stood there for a moment under the gloomy clouds. Then water began to sprinkle, cold and wet on my skin. Drops of water trickled down my body as I stood there frozen, my gaze fixed on the horizon, staring at the beauty of the whole scenario. As the clouds continued crying, I turned and walked away.
The pitiless rain fell without break all through the day and the roads were like shallow rivers.
Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.
After long rainy afternoons an hour
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings
Them at the windows in a radiant shower,
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.
Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.
Heavy rain, flooded streets, clothes soaked, unnatural darkness of the afternoon, rain beating down flamboyant trees, sky hot silver, lightening and thunder, glorious clouded sunset, unpaved paths awash with mud, sinking sun shot through layers of grey cloud, streams and rivers swollen, innumerable little cascades over rocks.
The rain was even sharper as they turned to the corner of the building and the lights attempted to pierce the blackness of the hour.
As he sat down he could hear the beat of the rain against the window and looking out could see, through the curtain of water, the dimmed lights of the sprawling city. On a clear night the view was awe-inspiring, but on this night his only thought was to complete his work and to return to the warmth and comfort of his own room.
The rain came in waves, splattering across the pavement. I spun around, my face turned to the dark sky. The water streamed through my hair, down my neck, soaking my clothes. The chilly wind cut through me like a knife, but I couldn't care. I was gleeful, overjoyed.
The raw, beating rain swept into his face as he strode down the avenue. A cruising taxicab, hoping for a passenger, pulled along the curb, but Bob waved the vehicle away. Just then he had no extra funds to invest in taxi fare.
The steady downpour sounded like dancing feet, reminding him of Paulo and his love for salsa.
Outside, the pitiless rain fell, fell steadily, with a fierce malignity that was all too human.
great sheets of water pouring out of dark skies, silver sheets of rain, rain crashed deafeningly on the corrugated metal roof, drizzle, steady rain, curtain of water, grey rain-curtain, sheets of rain, torrential, heavy drops, fine mist, rain pelted puddles dance with thousands of miniature water fountains, gullies rush with hurried water, storm drains gurgle, umbrellas dot the sidewalk, pedestrians dash for cover, newspapers as makeshift hats, windscreen wipers swoosh, the hiss of car tires on glistening roads. Heavy squalls, downpour. Monsoon.
Have you heard the rain this morning? It’s crazy! Those drops are bigger than prairie hailstones and coming down just as hard. I’ll just turn the dishwasher off here so you can listen to it better. It’s almost as if the drops are striking your eardrums, right? I actually like it, I find it soothing. Anyhow, it’s just you, me and the dirty breakfast dishes. The kids are at school already, you should have seen them go all togged up in rain jackets and umbrellas. I was going to give them rides but the school is just so close and the traffic so bad in the mornings that it’s actually quicker to walk. I do hope their feet stayed dry, look at that water on the street. Come over to the window, you’ll see it way better. It’s a shallow river over the tarmac, we get that so much. Did I say it’s a temperate rainforest here? Oh, I did? Well, the kids do say I repeat myself a lot, maybe they’re right after all!
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
Oh how I loved and adored the rain the feel of it in my hair and on my skin. The smell of it the air before and after it falls from the clouds. Walking through the rain was never easy for me. I always had to jump from puddle to puddle that formed in slight dips and cracks in the dark gray side walk. The rain made everything seem darker but sometimes the clouds were too blinding to stare at. Every time they landed on a window they would race. Aqua is in the lead but river is catching up quickly! . . . Then the rain stopped. There were no more races, no more splashes. Just silence. All thats left now was vacant puddles and a smell that showed what used to be there.
For an instant it was difficult to disassociate from the spirit of his dream the golden light of the early spring morning, the twittering of birds, the light drip from the eaves of the brief rain left by the vanished April shower.
In that valley of storms the cottages were thought drab. They were squat to the hillside and the rain lashed against the dirty panes. There was a small hearth that barely seemed to warm the room and all the time came terrible drafts. But Lauren never saw them that way. To her these everyday cottages were the salt of the earth, they gave protection to the poor workers of the district and she wasn't scared of the rain one bit. The rain can come she thought, bring on the rain, and then I'll walk out into the haze of the daylight and get gloriously wet. Perhaps too it will wash the windows clean. She so wanted to see the trees and flowers that were igniting with spring greenery. The little cottage would only be her prison in this season if she was scared of the rain. And why should she be scared of a little God sent rain? Wasn't that how He kept the world alive and healthy? She held out her hands to the steady drops and smiled in a way she knew came from deep within, thinking to herself, "Jesus bring the rain." Though the ground became wet and her skin cold, she was invigorated, alive and full of love for all His creations.
The rain battered the window like hail, torrent, flooding, roads turn to rivers, aqua plane, saturates, so heavy rain impairs vision, seeps, leaks, blustery, driven by the wind, soaks to the skin, rainbow, creates a prism creates life, life's blood
The rain had ceased, but big drops were shaken from the dark, high trees.
The light drizzle beads his heavy sweater, his beard, collects on his forehead, begins to trickle. Since he has no raincoat, since he's wet and shivering, how can she refuse to let him in?
As the steady rain fell the clouds broke slightly up ahead letting through a flood of watery, brilliant white light, falling as a shafts amongst the trees of the forest, as if God himself was breaking through.
Rain pelted faces, jeans and sweaters soaked in less than a minute, large drops, thick rain, soaked to the skin, rain running down back, feet splash in sudden river on road, howling gale, shelter eyes with hand, feet sodden in shoes, hair stuck to face and head, like being fully dressed in the shower.
The warm, yet cool droplets enveloped me as I lay in the grass. They ran down my nose and to my chin, finally skittering off my arm. The fresh, sweet smell of the rain comforted me. Suddenly there was a deep shout of thunder. I bolted inside and snuggled in a blanket while the world was washed in wet tears.
The rain fell down constantly like an endless bucket of water being poured down from the heavens. I looked up, my face was soaked. I shivered as another wave of ice hit me. I looked down at the puddles forming at my feet. I smiled as I walked into the house once more.
Gentle drops of water tap my head. No. No. No. This cannot be happening. I look up to see a mass of angry clouds stirring above me, doing what they do best, bring forth the rain in the wrong time. The ground becomes filthier each time I step on it, swallowing my feet with its dampness and the mud splashing to the rims of my dress. There is a shallow river ahead that will flood no matter how light the rain is. I must get home quickly before any of that happens.
The rain fell, tapping out a peculiar little tune as it hit the leaves of the trees.
A drop of rain, carrying years of shattered hopes and promises, streaked on her pale skin to her quivering lips where it struggled to drip down onto the gravel. Today, three years after he had said goodbye, she still remembered how he first held her hand as the morning sun spilled its faint glow over the city and also, how he walked away holding hands with another woman in the pouring rain. The time her face was spattered with raindrops again, almost drenching her hair, was when she realized how the water clenched to her skin for it knew what she'd been through.
Each drop sits on my skin like a puddle that will never leave, perfectly formed, perfectly cold. I feel the water steal my body heat just a tiny bit at a time. Perhaps once I would have sort shelter or warmth - but no longer. I have become accustomed to the elements, to the wind and chill. There is a coziness in my suffering, as if life has and will always be this way. There is comfort in predictability.
I wonder though, what if the sun broke through? What if each drop sparkled with light? What then? Would the warmth seep through and bring a new reality? Would I shake off this rain as easily as a cat after a storm? Because... I think I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.
Softly splashing water droplets hit the car windows as we drive onwards. The skies are overhung with a blanket of grey, so much so that I can barely tell the difference between the sky and clouds. Despite car rides feeling tedious, the rain commonly calms me - I watch raindrops race down to the windows. The occasional wave of a puddle can be exciting, but I'd rather be outside in those puddles than stuck in this car.
The first call of the thunder—the roar—runs an immense exhilaration through my veins. Rains are like tears. Like a person crying. Perhaps that’s why they bring with them such gloom. It’s like the beautiful blue ocean above us is mourning. It has seen too much; getting darker in its already deep blue color. A three year old’s cries, his screeches, mean nothing but annoying infancy. When we see tears releasing from someone old and wise, however, we know a deep gravity exists to it. Too wise and great to be able to fit into our little pools of comprehension. Maybe the trees, the leaves, the air and the sky feel it too. What we feel. A stem’s first leaf is like a baby’s first step. They are both restless to grow more leaves, walk more steps. They want to run. Compete. Grow. Little do they realize that their fun games are turning into big responsibilities. One leaf after another and another… they add weight. What was once thrilling, what we wanted more of, now, has turned into burdens that we must endure. The beautiful roof that shelters this earth has to be strong, brave and confident. You wouldn’t want your ceiling to be crooked, weak and filled with leaks. It won’t be a good protection for your loved ones. Nonetheless, with immense strength, comes immense responsibility. My dad barely cries, but when he does, in those silent drops I see years of miserable persistence. He lets it all out, one by one. That’s why I smile when it rains. I sympathize with it and am happy that it is letting it all out. I don’t get sad because I am more than glad to take in some of what it’s been enduring. Just as kids shouldn’t abandon their old parents who sacrifice their whole lives for them, we shouldn’t complain when our mother nature releases herself from some sadness. Instead, we should help her. Thank her for feeding us, taking care of us and loving us. Because after the rain, the sun shines brighter than ever.
As we drove along the road, the rain trickled down the window making little pitter patter noises. Somehow it calmed me, seeing the night sky so dark and the street lights reflecting in every single drop making it look like a speck of gold.