I hear the leaves rustle in the breeze
The gust picks up slowly, gradually
I hear the rattle of a window 
The one that lies loosely in its frame 
Like a watchful sentry 
Announcing the entry 
Of a wayward breeze 
That rolls in through its screen
To knock upon the door
At the end of the corridor

I walk out of my bedroom into the lounge 
The sentinel window 
Is now trembling, recoiling
Rattling its pane 
Warning of rain 
That will soon moisten  
Its face; gushing
Rushing, tearing
The dust off old memories
Renewing the pain 

I see the first flash of lightning and then 
The thunder breaks
The storm has arrived 
I look at it through the window 
Now lying quietly in its frame 
Soon the glisten of its pane
Swells into a stream flowing 
Down silently as I sit quietly 
With the sweet ache 
Of old memories again.