This is the dry, dry season, sere and spare
The cracked, bare earth becomes, itself, a prayer.
The heart feels dried down to a baking bone
Where every drop of water dies alone.
The breath of heat has shrivelled up the shade
And trees forget the reason they were made.
Nothing is ample, nothing rich or lush,
The dried grass shrinks, the silence seems to crush.
The soul is gasping, struggling for its breath,
The movement and the effort feel like death.
Rain were a mercy almost beyond prayer
But oh, when mercy falls, all life is there.
And should a little wind stir forth a cloud,
That were enough to be all unfaith’s shroud.
No comments:
Post a Comment