Cannons of clouds fire rain straight down
from their boiling black muzzles
each day in December
from exactly 3:30 to 4:30 p.m.
to explode the cheap tin roofs
in the townships, detached from the cities
and the servant’s shacks, detached from the white houses,
but there is no apartheid of heat and noise.
It’s like a bomb blast that lasts
for the long summer hour,
contained by flimsy construction,
absorbed by the oil-dark bodies
sitting and waiting within.
When the noise stops, the people emerge
into the breathable air
and feel the cool, moist earth
beneath bare feet.
-
20 Dec 2008 / Poetry
Posted by Scott @ 4:44 am
14 Responses
December 20th, 2008 at 11:35 am
Scott, this blew me away. The word choice, the pressure exerted by the lines, the over-all intensity of the piece, which all drive home the feel of the kind of rain you speak of.
Definitely one of my favorites among your free-verse poems.
Cheers.
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