Crouching Thunder, Hidden Rain

I can smell the rain, and it is hiding in the pocket of a five year old boy, jostled around by two clear, green marbles and a yellow button. And sewed into the hem of a maiden's blouse, rocking in between her bosom and following the swing of her hip, as she whistled a folksong she heard when the circus was in town. It is marching in between the lines of soldiers, in dry trenches and under withered camouflage. It flies swiftly under the wing of the albatross and dances on the edge of the sea-shore.
Did you find the rain? And while you sat in the corner of the room you shared with another, chipping away the wax that had two nights ago melted onto your table in a molten puddle, you saw rain crawl out of an old grey sock. You were quick but clumsy, and knocked over the ink pot letting the blue-black liquid run across the dark wood and drip in infuriating drops to the floor. The colour bled, wrapped itself around the rain, and the blue black mist was exhaled out of the gaps in the weave. There was panic, you had to be quick. 
You couldn't hear the movement, but you felt it travel from the small of your back to the little drops of sweat that dotted your upper lip right up till the root of your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut in the hope that you could trap the chill but then it crawled out of your pores - damp and full of destruction.
I can hear the thunder and it is far away, closer to you, and before the sky can swallow it, it burrows it's way through thick clouds and created labyrinthine patterns allowing some sunshine to stream through.
Did you hear the thunder while you chased the rain? It slipped under your bed, it is quiet and quick, but you are quicker. You caught it in a glass jar and stuck a label with his name on it. You have called him Claude. You have beautiful penmanship, and in cursive hand your L's loop in smooth, long, straight lines.
I looked for it everywhere, you know, in between pages of books and behind the curtains, in letter boxes and shoe boxes and match boxes. Did you know, it rode on the backs of whales and kissed the noses of puppy dogs and danced to the tune of traffic lights - red, amber, green, amber, and scurried along.
The thunder has disappeared and the rain long gone, but there is promise. They will come back, definitely not tomorrow. I am sure. May be next week. I am certain. But come they will, like a victorious army - storm in with pride and noise and applause.