Among the reeds, birds flutter:
Open their defiance of the call
To midday rest; heat presses in
On every side; storm clouds gather
Bringing pressure on the sultry air
To bursting point. But nothing comes.
Droplets of rain, longed for over days
and months of anguished waiting
By parched and cracking earth,
Deny their gift, and like their wearied
Suppliants, prayer-denied, they wait
And wait some more.
Afar the jagged screeching of the
meadow-strimmers: they bow their
High-pitched tune, in vain awaiting
A bass-line rumble from the skies.
Beneath a tree, two young men sense
the scent of dusted rain, and wait.
So all is to hand: the stage is set,
The players in their places:
The lights are dimmed across the
Laden sky but only silence echoes back
the expectation of the storm;
till barren, it is gone: and so the curtain falls.
Awaiting the rains that never came
to a thirsty land,
Sidwashini,
Swaziland
February 2012
