What a cruel trick of nature, landed me with such a squall

God knows how long I’ll defy rain without my brolly with me

Familiar odors mixed and

Drops dappled the glass

Four or five parked by the way

Popped the hood/boot and

Dressed for the worst

Then the sun peeked through

To the exasperation of all

Who greeted its rays

With passionate gestures and

Colourful language

Singapore weather – as fickle as it is inclement and about as coy as a catfish

Window panes rail valiantly against relentless pelting, trembling, before the wind grasps them tightly and nails them shut.

Laundry dance in the courts, bowing and dipping on the clothesline, clothes pegs straining wildly.

Wispy smoke wrestles the heavy, damp air, and gripping each other in strangleholds, yet the storm wrenches it out of its joint, and prevails.

The land is hit with a fit of vapours, and the weary wash out of the torrent.

The trees bend over backward for the sloping, whipping rain. Here, monsoon is king.

Something smells scorched. Ah, my everywhere.