I must drop the song

First showers at last
See how they tumble down,
Out and far, all that was heavy
and swollen and pregnant
with months of heat, cries at last.

How it’s nothing new, never,
and just a repetition every year.
Yet so piercingly fresh the pour
brings along, every season all blue
and grey some new and little old.

Parched poor pensive, no more
It pops up surprised, having waited
and so sure. Look, the window’s wet;
Springing sprightly singing, smiles
sighing smiles? But what a somerset!

It’s a routine well learnt
Sighing and all sung.
The wait’s vain, a wetting wont.
A welkin’s cheek and one here
washed, in a wonderful song.

Ha! The sun is setting.
… The blues drip.
There’s also an orange.
Wait, hey!
I must drop the song and go get drenched.