The Gift of Ra
The rain comes down upon the planet
And all around the trees luxuriate-
Roots delving deep'
Drinking full from the soils cup.
Winter's dull squat
And the black birds aloft
Crying for moisture.
Light aircraft blink through their windscreen eyes
Above the bitumened earth
Where water bubbles and splutters
And falls into gutters
Which the drains gobble up without protest.
Across the street
A telegraph pole triumphantly holds
His precious, drooping wet cables
And powers the light by which I write.
He rots more slowly than the eye may discern
Beneath the pitiless late winter rain.
Next summer he will bake
Beneath the archer sun
Who will crack his bow
At the parched, enduring wood.
And the infants pass in noisy parade
Dodging the droplets
For they are young
And foolish enough
To know the truth about rainy days.
They are the gift of Ra
The God of the Sun
Who provides such days
To keep us washed and spun.