The Day it Rained.

They huddle,
Some dark, others grey, heavily laden,
Spelling doom and gloom,
Their heads close together, muttering,
Light whispers that only the gods are privy to,

Mothers call to their young ones but few heed, if at all,
Fathers rush home, curtly nodding to their neighbours,
Their doors and windows hurriedly closed,
An owl hoots in the background,
A dog barks its response,

A strong wind blows...,
The trees groan in distress,
Thin gnarled branches extended toward the heavens,
An undying appeal to the gods,
To be green again if but for a moment,

A single splash upon the dusty red earth,
The little Hermes insignificant, obscure, forgettable,
Then a steady shower,
The parched cracked ground greedily lapping it all up,
Insatiable as the soil is, the gods offering is in abundance,

A battle is soon raging, both inside the dilapidated 'cosy' huts, barely, and the world without,
Of who will sleep on the thin semblance of a mattress away from the constant 'drip' 'drip' of the leaky roofs,
Of who will tap the now unwelcome water and ensure none snakes its way into their humble abodes,
Outside the gods quarrel, throwing thick bolts of lightning across the skies,
A battle of who, heaven or earth, will come away unscathed.

These gods, they mock us.