When finally the rain came, we lined ourselves,
propped on elbows, to watch from the sanctuary
that was my parents bedroom window. Weeks
had gone by, rumours ran rife, barometers
tapped twice, then thrice, as the grass whitened
in that most un-English summer without end.
When it came, the sky, refusing to be less than blue,
pummeled the dry earth with stampeding hooves
that raised the dust in a shroud to hide
the impotence of water. It is hope
that kills. For one more selfish day. But we
grew drunk upon the heady perfume rising,
as inch on inch the water rose like some
crowd released with nowhere left to go
but down, into autumn.
No comments:
Post a Comment