Singin' in the Rain

Singin’ in the Rain

In the first cry of the afternoons, the streets of London glimmer,
black‑top cobbles bubbling beneath the mist, the drizzle a silver frame.
A gentle hush swells around the cafés, the hum of pints and talk of football,
and an old eleven‑tale catalogue of rehearsals stirs the air.

From a curtained stage at the Royal Variety we hear a sound touch that rings,
a voice as bright as a brass band, hoarse with the beat of a jazz drum.
It rises, soaring past the Thames, a lift of hope that is only music,
singing so loudly the rain drowns out the distant traffic of the city.

Umbrellas unfurl beneath that picture‑perfect rhythm, each a storm of colour,
and strangers give a nod, then smile, as the beat of the careful footfall.
It’s a moment in the theatre of the world, where every soul feels the pulse,
so the words of the poem are simply a half‑elaborate refrain of light:

“Singin’ in the rain, a laugh at the absurdity of a universe bleak,
but within that bruise of trouble there is the sparkle of a single heart,
a citrus flash of, courage isn't thrown out the window, you bring the music to the people,”
— all in perfect, graceful British demure, not a smidge of American swagger.

Our names remain suspended in an array of elegiac irony,
as we march in that puddle of selves, synchronised as a choir,
and the train from Hyde Park to Waterloo turns into the lantern that signals all:
in every downpour our hearts have a jacket of song,
and a fragile hope that life is simply to be singin’ in the rain.