The Drought

The umbrella lay dry rotting
as flowers on drooping stems
struggled to last their season,
It wasn’t autumn frost
that browned the leaves..
No rain for days, then weeks,
cracked the riverbed
and left it drained and wrinkled
as if some Golithian monster
had inserted hollow tongue
and sucked the lifeblood
from its veins.
Even the farmers’
eyes ran dry
as their dreams curled up
like withered corn
and died.

4 thoughts on “The Drought

  1. Bardess,

    I am always happy to have your comments, late or early. : )

    I have great admiration for your talent, both as a poet and
    a painter. Thank you for taking time to offer your encouragement.

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