© Zondrae King


Winner, 2009 ‘Wool Wagon Award’, Crookwell Upper Lachlan NSW.

First there starts a little smatter, just a gentle pitter patter

only soft, a tiny “titter” as it taps on your back door.

This, at first, you try ignoring ‘til it’s positively pouring

it restores and keeps refreshing every living thing around.

Then it trickles down the timber of the trees with branches limber

and the leaves surrender dust as, drinking lustily, they sup.

Where the droplets make a sprinkle, there the drainpipe starts a tinkle

or it tickles through the tendrils ‘til it soaks into the ground.

In the gutter there’s a puddle, just a little middle muddle

then it grows into a gusher as it gurgles past the curb.

This torrent tumbles t’wards the tar, ten times as fast and twice as far

as the tortured teachers tug at both their tunics and their sleeve.

And again, it makes a bubble and creates a little trouble

for the wetness of the water causes weeping from the wise.

There’s a flooding of the fields as the water waves and wheels

and the mourning Mormons on their bikes are crying to the skies.

While the raindrops run round ridges and they ripple down the bridges

then they join the joyful journey at the junction with a jog.

Once they gather in the gutter there’s a gurgling, gleeful splutter

 with a spattering and utterance, they’re singing as they leave.

There’s a stutter and a rattle as the gusher fights a battle

with the gravity of planet as it joins the chanting throng.

But it’s nature is persistent and ignores every resistant

trend of barriers as willfully it wends it’s way again.

Now it seeks the final slaughter and it dives into the water

of the ocean at the entrance of the place we call the bay.

There’s a glad “hurrah” of praising to the Lord who has been gazing  

down on all his children, named or not, who sought his blessed ‘Rain’.