Parched, the dry brown grass,
taut the earth, tighter than a drum.
Footsteps echo a rhythmic, hollow sound:
marimba music with death tones.
No joy in the barefoot beat of heel and toe.

For months now, no rain has fallen.
The fire crackle is feared in the forest.
Elsewhere, trees catch and the woodlots blaze.
What good are showers, dry thunder clouds,
building, always building, but never releasing
the surging tide that this commonwealth needs?

We yearn for a thick blanket of cloud to gift us
with the long, slow soak of an English spring.
The grass speaks out with its many tongues,
each as sharp as a blade, and calls for rain,
for liquid to pour down from the sky and end
the dryness of drought. We need to fill the wells,
to let the streams overflow with the bounty of water.
We need the green, green grass: not this baked,
bare, arid crunch and crumble of taut brown earth.

22 thoughts on “Rain

  1. This is my favourite image: ‘The grass speaks out with its many tongues,
    each as sharp as a blade, and calls for rain’…I have been reading many drought poems lately…we’ll soon have a new genre like ‘love poems’. Yours is excellent 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks, Janice. So glad you like it. We had thunder and lightning yesterday evening, but not a drop of the wet stuff. As for a genre, well: not a bad idea. I saw in the Guardian that 60,000 farmers in India had committed suicide because of climate change and the failure of crops and animals. We are living in a troubled and troublesome world. Best wishes …

      Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s