Splashing, slopping, lashing, swishing, sweeping,
gushing, whistling, crashing, bashing;
the watery depths - swallowing,
and the angels - weeping.
Continuously, for months, the water plumes,
indulging in its gleaming wet world.
The day is cold as the night, and just as dark and dreary
and the lightning curls, flickers piercing,
and the wind and rain are never weary.
On and on, this deluge seems to be without refrain
the land drunk, lifeless and cold in the February rain,
and the gale beats a rhythm upon the window panes
and viciously rips the catkins off the poplar trees
as an entire nation waits for the sun...
Yes, there is such a longing that blossoms for the mellow breeze!
Trapped inside, all day children huddle in corners, praying
and peering woefully at the storm outside:
The storm which twists and coils and clutches at the shrieking panes
and brings seas of wan white mist to enfold the land,
swirling slowly as they feign a tender embrace...
The same storm which leaves the few, pitiful vultures,
those too feeble to fly away,
harping mournfully as they look upon the drunken land
and see reflections of only desruction in the rippling puddles,
puddles like a looking glass,
where everything seems upside down as the black clouds overhead pass...
Aye, 'tis the self same storm which savages and ravages the helpless trees
and brings the sick leaves reeling down in throngs
pained shreds of the tattered, tumbling skies that,
like a dream,
seem to be falling into the skyline...
The Lord Thunder roars a solo in clashes of angry voices
and the Lady Wind shrieks back a chorus -
treble, tenor and bass.
It is a wild call, wailing heart-break in its song
as the stage, once thriving, turns desolate.
Then comes a queer, silent hushing...
The chill wind becomes languid as though in pain,
and the silver, liquid drops slow to a whispering lullaby.
Frantically they search for someone to hear their story,
their first and last secret before they hit the ground -
like precious pearls that, from heaven, fall amid squalor -
Listen. Listen Hear their tales of fleeing clouds, storm-bruised and frightened...
Disbelieving, a crowd seems to magically appear,
heads upturned as all ages surge out over the saturated fields.
Kneeling in the sodden loam, arms raised to the sky,
the beaten people hail the first, glorious sunbeams, mouths open,
tasting heaven on the little rainbows that peek shyly from the clear, blue sky.
Hillary
