Fire and Rain
For months now it's been bone dry.
The hot wind blows desire away,
And the sun glares down from on high.
A burning fire in the sky.
Dew in the morning the only drink.
What's left of the river flows under ground,
And the pond's a stagnant stink.
Death comes like hell without a sound.
From rotting carcasses of those who came to drink
And found not water, but savage at the brink,
The coils of death unfurled, not what you'd think.
The wind gathers it up and carries it afar,
Choking all in its path with throats parched and dry.
Turning day to night as dust clogs the sky.
Mercifully, the sea breeze brings vapor to the coast.
It spreads on the dust like butter on toast,
Until it consumes its host, like the Holy Ghost.
Of seasons past, when it was lush and green.
While the droplet dances the wind and grows,
Heaven knows, until it's reached so high.
Like a frozen locket, it does try.
Opened by the multitude ice in the sky,
Melts, once again in the updraft,
Until, too heavy to fly, drops.
And the fury unleashes its mighty charge,
To split the high blue sky large.
Opening alchemy of acid air,
Painted on the Devil's lair.
A clap of thunder mighty,
The startled air rushes in.
Shakes the tree of plenty,
And the fruit of rain begins.
From the dirty still, hot silence,
A darkly cloud emerges.
The skin crawls in anticipation,
Of a breeze's urges.
A rush of cold breath so violent,
It tears trees from their earth,
A darkness descends upon it,
A chill for all its worth.
The drought is not broken,
With drops of gentle rain.
It is vanquished with a torrent,
Of Biblical refrain.
The sky rips open wide,
And the deluge rushes in.
The surprised dust first puddles,
Then an evil mud soup begins.
Mixed with death and decay,
The carcasses float off,
Until the pond overflows its banks,
And the flotsam spills out.
Growing in a torrent rushing south,
For some river's open mouth.
Only to spread across the land.
Drowning in muddy, everything on hand.
Until the plain becomes a shallow sea.
Dirty water far as the eye can see.
Without a dry place to rest a weary head.
Stop swimming and you are dead
Days later, the muck has dried hard.
A crack appears, and a green blade pokes out
Bees buzz, birds sing, and life returns to Nature's back yard.
Grass for the plenty that follows the drought.
Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull