Tyrant Sun

The wind shifts south to tear at the land, and

stressed tufts of green sway and roll then hang limp.

Men look out, eyes narrowing and say it’s been drier,

that a shower will come to bring back life; 

and the sky blackens, a boiling belt of black,

swollen with promise, and thunder booms 

and the men look and run hands over chins:

this will be it, they say. It will rain.

Still the wind pulls at the ragged leaves and they flap

and fall, tired little roots prying the dusty soil for moisture.

Then it is gone, a retreating blackness

shot through with china-blue and the wind dies

and there is an awful calm, where men look at each other and nothing is said.

There is nothing to say, just sadness roaming the eyes

 

 

2 thoughts on “Tyrant Sun

  1. A terrible vista beautiflly told, John, the little things like those hands to the chin, the saying ‘this will be it’ but it isn’t and finally the sadness ‘roaming’ the eyes.

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