Drought

Earth, water, wind and fire;
life can seem harsh on the land;
one with worn features wears calloused hands
and a body as wound as a wire.

Standing as still as a weather cock;
not a whisper of wind to propel;
locals talk grimly about being in hell,
crops fail as rains don’t knock.

It’s all a struggle, this won’t be denied,
but there’s always room for a friend;
time for tall tales, to melt hearts and mend;
put on a lively show, true age is belied.

Words by Stephanie Mohan – October 2015

photo – thanks to Jacki F 2015

  

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Categories: Poetry

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