The Drought’s End

Cynical Wordsmith

A storm comes
And the children wake
To the sounds
Of rain on tin
And thunder.

They run to a porch,
And watch the whirlwind
Whip endless waves of water
Onto fields and creek beds.

Their faces shine white
With each thunderous bolt
And their fear is only outweighed
By their awe.

They run to their father,
Soundless in bed,
A full ash tray and empty bottle
Adorn a dated night stand.

The thunder shakes the house
The children shake their father.
Sheets are quickly withdrawn,
And a new downpour starts.

Papers with stamps,
“Invoice” and “Past due”,
Are flung through the air
Sticking with crimson glue.

The ruffle and rumble cease,
And peace falls over the land.
A desperate sort of peace,
Which torments tiny hearts.

A man who couldn’t provide,
Provides a source of pain
And an endless downpour
Of needful innocent tears.

They both will grow,

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