Southern Rain

Here it has no notion how to rain,

It’s a novice at a storm

A mere beginner.

Clouds build, to whet the appetite,

Then drift away into the blue,

And die in the sky

Where they were born.

The hard sun bakes the tired earth,

And spring’s green grass grows grey while young.

A steamy, heavy autumn day

Might manage a few sweaty drops,

But nothing more,

And worn out leaves

In disappointment wilt away.

In summer it rains desert sand,

Swept up by brooms of burning wind

From the dusty corners of Africa.

It smudges the red tiles with brown,

A mockery of rain,

A novice at a storm.

The gentle rain that falls

Lightly on the leaves and slides

Down the grateful blades of grass,

Comforting the waiting earth,

That gentle rain that trickles

Lightly down the pane in spring

And freshens the young girl’s smile

As she jumps the puddles home from school,

Is here beyond our wildest dreams.

Poem every Monday