WETTING THE DRY
Posted: Sat Jun 04, 2016 1:15 pm
WETTING THE DRY…. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
It was dry and drear and dusty in those far off distant lands
and the drought was hitting hard and claiming souls.
The weather men had no good news at all to impart
regarding breaking rain or reaching monthly goals.
The shadow of the sun stretched wide across our sunburnt land,
they were looking down the barrel every day
desperate to hear the patter of some rain upon their roof
but it seems it wouldn’t happen – not today.
There were intermittent drizmals, scarce enough to lay the dust.
There were far more tears upon a windowpane
and raindrops on red roses were a distant memory now
for all had died and would not bloom again.
There were prayers carried to heaven in the arms of angels fair,
there were benedictions chanted in the church,
there were desperate pleas from farmers, but it seems all went unheard
for the weather Gods had left all in the lurch.
But then a change did happen and the Gods answered the call
pewter coloured clouds gathered across the land
and the dirt, picked by the handful, that would blow away in dust
turned to rich red mud that squelched within ones hand.
Mud coloured rivers ran again and dams were filling slow
weary cattle and the horses seemed to rally
as a tinge of green appeared like a miracle over night
softly cloaking all the land from hill to valley.
One could hear the splish-splash of the water dripping into tanks,
and eddies of water filled the valley floor
And the farmhouse roof was dripping, tin had rusted round a nail
but it mattered not. They rejoiced in the roar
drifting loud across the paddock from a dry creek now in flood
after months and months without a drop of rain.
This country tears your heart out – she is harsh and she is hard
but how quickly she will give it back again.
It was dry and drear and dusty in those far off distant lands
and the drought was hitting hard and claiming souls.
The weather men had no good news at all to impart
regarding breaking rain or reaching monthly goals.
The shadow of the sun stretched wide across our sunburnt land,
they were looking down the barrel every day
desperate to hear the patter of some rain upon their roof
but it seems it wouldn’t happen – not today.
There were intermittent drizmals, scarce enough to lay the dust.
There were far more tears upon a windowpane
and raindrops on red roses were a distant memory now
for all had died and would not bloom again.
There were prayers carried to heaven in the arms of angels fair,
there were benedictions chanted in the church,
there were desperate pleas from farmers, but it seems all went unheard
for the weather Gods had left all in the lurch.
But then a change did happen and the Gods answered the call
pewter coloured clouds gathered across the land
and the dirt, picked by the handful, that would blow away in dust
turned to rich red mud that squelched within ones hand.
Mud coloured rivers ran again and dams were filling slow
weary cattle and the horses seemed to rally
as a tinge of green appeared like a miracle over night
softly cloaking all the land from hill to valley.
One could hear the splish-splash of the water dripping into tanks,
and eddies of water filled the valley floor
And the farmhouse roof was dripping, tin had rusted round a nail
but it mattered not. They rejoiced in the roar
drifting loud across the paddock from a dry creek now in flood
after months and months without a drop of rain.
This country tears your heart out – she is harsh and she is hard
but how quickly she will give it back again.
