The Promise Of Rain (Poetry)

They lour — those great grey blowsy clouds —
tease with their heavy fullness
like breasts engorged with liquid blessings
for the parched blind infant earth.

The sky is shameless — all unbuttoned — hangs exposed
while air — expectant — gawping — waits transfixed
for those first drops to trickle — a thin taste
of rain still brewing — cupped in buxom space.

Clouds leak a little — dribble — spurt as though
they are unconscious of the careless overspill.
Leaves crane like offspring eager for the tap —
the mouths of trees gape open — keen to catch
                                even a spot —

any trace of moisture falling to relieve this cruel spell
                                of drought —
a time of ache and withering — of dust and all-consuming
thirst for comfort in a steady downpouring of rain...
Such longing now a faint whimper echoing round hills

as cloudbanks drift — their idle promise lagging hollow —
                                unfulfilled.