We're having a drought but tonight it started to rain again, and this old poem turned up from 10 rainy seasons ago:
It has rained for so long,
days and weeks and hurricane forecasts
ever since you left -
the verges are running and thick with mud and drowned weeds
the gut rumbles and rushes and papyrus piles up-rooted against the bridge
and trees fall, the ground too soft to hold their roots.
Hard not to think of that old song,
"Ain't no sunshine when you're gone" -
and that same maudlin country music feeling seems to have settled here -
on everyone not used to grey skies.
Where your feet would be, the bed is damp
with rain that has blown through the shutters.
The floor is gritty with the mud I've brought in over and over
on my four pairs of wet shoes,
amazed that the bean vines are still climbing their bamboo tripods
and the lettuces are floppy but growing by the hour.
Up the road, vistas like a real river appear, the gut could run for months,
all the bush has fallen into it and been swirled away to the sea -
there's white-water on the bends and the old aquaduct spouts roar,
today the road is flooded again, but the sun came out!