© 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’.

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