Rain

Rain

There I was on a car,
passing the seaside highway.
Taking a glance across the harbour.
Little is seen but the bay,
masked are the skyscrapers of far.

Smog is its name, they say,
an alliance of smoke and fog.
This we must give thanks to cheap diesel and industries up north.
Tourists ask, "Why can't I see clearly as in photos, the view of Hong Kong? Should there be under the tropical sun, no fog?"
And we replied, shaking our heads, "That in photos is what used to be. I too miss the good old days."

And Smog resides in the city without our consent,
and explains, "The dense buildings trapped me in. Do I not know Hong Kong is wanted unveiled?"
All we can do is to nod and agree, for that's the truth.
Unless wind dues north this state is held,
also rain that refreshes the air content.

Rain was what came a week after,
a typical China south coast summer with typhoons and storms.
The harbour is now covered, not by Smog but by the bandage of rain.
People no longer damn Smog for poor air in all forms,
but curse at rain for the discomfort of getting wet and getting fever.

The downpour persisted for days with short interludes,
and with amount and strength in a raging crescendo.
“What use is your being to be furious?” the sky is questioned.
The anger rose to its peak one night, lighting strikes, drums thundering, wind blows.
Streets are darker than shadow and shine more dazzling than stars, when bolts intrude.

There I was, during dawning, awaken by the sun,
looking beyond the seaside highway.
Feeling not so familiar with the familiar harbour.
Hong Kong at all its glory in the flames of a new day,
Ravishing are the skyscrapers under the rising sun.

Dirt is washed and the sky is cleared.
Through rain, this is done.
But would thick grease, sticky with filth, be gone,
by a single wash?
I think not.