Flash Fiction by Paul Andrew Sneddon
Ayrshire rain, Steady, Reliable. I’d miss it if it wasn’t there, I’m sure I would.
On a cold winter’s night, Falling against the window, Like knocking on the door. Pulling up the duvet, “Leave it out there, Come to bed, baby.”
Or in the summer, The sky opens. You don’t want to be caught In that. Like standing in the shower, Straight-down rain. As the bus goes up the street.
The sun will shine too, Over the beach, Green fields, The rivers.
But I guarantee.
The rain will be back.
Text © Paul Andrew Sneddon
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