Rainstorm in Africa
At the ripeness of season when clouds hang heavy,
the once gleeful and azure heavens morphs a dreary grey.
Blinding flashes of light and roaring echoes of legion voices
resume strive for supremacy and control of the skies, and
trees yield to the hounding of winds without whence.
Dust and debris caught in a web of spiralling wind:
a stirring helix, a slithering air, cocooning its catch.
The children in their underpants tickled by the magic
of the whirling spectacle take turns to dive into core,
hoping to be lifted too like Elijah tales at Sunday school.
Then they hear the lapping cries of mothers behind:
promising to bring down heaven on their rascally skulls.
With bolt speed the quick-limbed scatter while their
ill-fated cohorts are caught by the waist in mid-flight,
dragged home by the ears to the laughter of peers.
Then the torrents begin. First with whole aqua beads
like pellets hurled at a target for a grudge harboured
yesterday, striking swift and painful leaving no mark.
Soon we have to yell to be heard because the trouncing on
the roof overshadows all. After a bath and steaming tea, from
the windows we watch as the streets grow into a sweeping flood.
~ Kelvin Kellman ~
"We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content." Dag Hammarskjold ~ 'Waymarks'