Dry Months

Dry Months A Dracula drought drank soil’s blood, In spring and clouds refused to shed Their load of collected sorrow before The middle of October. The landscape jaundiced and leaves on Trees petrified into rusty bits of metal That clanked abjectly in a breeze that Tasted of dust and reheated air. In the stale heat of the night thoughts Ran free to dream of mountain lakes, Deep fiords and cascades of sweet water In a landscape green and wondrous. Teasingly, heavy clouds came from The north shed loads of liquid pearls that Rolled like tobacco spittle on parched Ground and nature held its breath. The downpour didn’t last very long, But long enough for the landscape to Not give up hope and become a new Sahara only fit for scorpions.