It will not rain

It will not rain.
The beech trees sulk,
standing still, silent and sullen,
oxygen withheld
from parched earth.

Dust devils rise and fall,
a dead man’s chest inhaling a
phantom breath,
a breeze that draws furnace heat.

The grass lays sullen,
scorched yellow.
Scratching
through picnic blankets
and sandals,
toes tickled, irritated.

Victoria looks dehydrated,
muddy sides
caked and cracked to clay,
A dowager painted
to cover scars
that mar springs flawless
youth. Cracking.

Her surface, salted and
scummy, unappealing.
Dull flashes of silver scales
line the shore.
The rats feast at twilight.
Foxes and badgers come
at night.

Love evaporates
through the caps
of open whiskey bottles
top left carelessly unscrewed.

A monsoons of fragile words ensues.
building up on a dark horizon
but not falling
The black bank of curses
Unspoken, poison,
looming through the bright sunlight.
The games we play,
to ease or erase
this drought of tension.

A Lent of fasting,
a Ramadan of famished days
that leaves tongues dry
and bitter.
Desiccated like the receding lake,
dull as dirty dishwater.

No effervescent blooms
to move lead from
clay clogged pipes.
No rush or gush of energy.

We bask in brackishness
stale air of familiarity,
flies buzzing around an open
wound.
leave us languishing
in this spoiled paradise
of care and plenty.

Death overtook us,
unexpected and unwelcome
but it came,
brazen and without challenge,
a champion undefeated

Years or fairness
are not stacked up
by bean counters,
fat accountants allotting
hours and days,
Randomness gives
and chaos takes,

A second or less,
Span of a breath
and he’d be here with us.
Youth pushing and pulling
that cloud over the hill that
we will not climb.
In case we bringing rain
cascading down.

-Dave Kavanagh

Grief and tears withheld do more damage than rage and screaming voices.
It took me 295 words to express this, brevity is not my friend.

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