Low black clouds gather
and tower one upon the other
lightning flashes flicker on the edge of sight
the wind rises to a banshee’s scream
and tears the leaves and limbs from trees
the deluge begins
a biblical alluvion
to wash away all sins.
And yet I stand here dry
in this arid, torrid air
with heat-cracked lips
and parched-dry throat
alone, on this sun-scorched knoll
and look with lust and longing
at rain that will never dampen
the desolate desert of my soul.
The twisting cobbled streets
slick with the damp night air
holding their sodden breath,
waiting for morning
each stone a rain-washed monument
to man’s short-lived triumph over nature:
apparently.
But watch the sprouting weed
or the green shaven-headed moss
hiding in the cracks
of frost-split stones
polished by centuries of feet.
History has taken us from the humble cobbled stone
to the cloud-reaching tower
of glass and concrete
of plastic and steel
Babel now lies in every direction
praise be the money-god. Ha!
Yet even these so-called wonders of man will fail
when nature decides to reclaim her own.
We can hope.
My Words, My World 