Green grass groaning
in wild wind wake
of monsoon’s crooning
call; grey sky hung
on horizon’s head –
the moan of newly born
The mantra dark
and mournful soars
high to crown the day
her words wash well
the face of sky;
rub dusty days away.
The clouds hang heavy,
hug the edge,
of sunshine’s faded face,
then fall to earth
with ominous roar;
prostrated at her feet.
Her slow, shrill song
sung sweetly now,
the message straddles
time and marks with sure
solemnity;the blessed
baptismal rain.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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