It has long ceased to rain here.
The embers of drought are fanned by the merciless
Hands of hell.
The air is stifling,
The heat insufferable.
I cringe from a long wait on a queue in the narrow
Trench at a fast-drying
Brook.
I wait from the crack of dawn to vespers time,
But not an iota of liquid
The size of miniaturised Sri Lanka in a children’s atlas,
Has creased my aching tongue.
Not one drop.
My chances are scuppered by the returning terns
Who must refuel in readiness for
Another chaotic Atlantic crossing.
A mild squall renews hopes for a pluvial onslaught,
But clouds chose not to weep.
The petulance of spring tempts our fortitude.
As the days stretch with sloth’s speed
In the face of a prickling drought,
I could only drink from an hourglass....

The jaw of Time has broken.
Waves of seas clash on each other and welter
By way of crimson froths.
Bleached by salt,
They taste like mordant fruits,
Biting and scourging my cheeks to the
Fulfilment of stalking and waiting.

There should never be any time that matters
More than any season, no matter the name of
The Calendar — Caesar or Gregory.

As I wait, I finger my hair,
Now whittled by damnation.
I dream according to my visions....
If only opportunities came as regularly as the
Milkman!