It is raining as we get on the plane

Raindrops trail on the outside double window

A taunt.

The tarmac is wet and slick

And sounds are water muted

Our showered bodies smell clean

But we feel somehow unprepared for our return

To the dry land

The panic land

The brown land

The bone sand dam

The hollow dry bed

The withered pot plant

The turned off tap

The unused pipes

The dirty sheets

The threat of fires.

Our throats dry in the pressurised cabin

And our tiny bottles of bought sparkling water

Are drops in the sky from up here

They will pass through our bodies before we leave the air.

This last week of swimming

And summer thunderstorms

And pink centred bromeliads holding minature worlds of water

For frogs and bugs

And taps for feet washing

And balconies dripping rainwater onto the balconies below

And gathering more and then dripping onto the balconies below

Has felt so tropical and abundant.

I am drying up and out

As I head home.