On The Edge.
F Fay Slimm
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Pregnant and longing, the hot molten sky
Encounters light cloudlets skimming the plains,
And parcels them into grey beds of flying
Cotton-wool eiderdowns, heavy with rain.
Edging nearer, they threaten to over-spill,
Drenching whatever is out and about,
And waiting at waterless holes for fill
Of Heaven's nectar, stomping, snorting,
Squawking loudly, animal and bird faintly
Sway with great thirst. This is the worst arid
Drought, and connections with which life relays
Such news of the rains are fragile, yet carry
Hope to weakest first. Parched throats just whine.
Dusty scorched limbs painfully move, within
A short while the edge between life and dying
Of waterless dry seems to broaden, in
Expectation bright lightning cracks the sky.
Nostrils flare, life on the edge sniffs, then sighs.
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