Village boy Impressions

Where are the showers?  Where is the dew,  That should be greening the fields?  The rains should be here A good month since or more.  Why is it not raining?  We should be looking forward to the harvest already, or turning the soft loamy earth, planting seeds, and tending the shoots. Instead, we are trapped in this  rainlessness, this heat, and lifeless brown.      Where is the new grass? that should be returning the cows,  to health and freshness? Delighting the sheep and the goats? It is no longer lateness when the fields  are brown in June. It is not a lateness of the rains,  When the stream is dry in August  It is the fightback, The revolt of an ailing Earth.  The rainmaker is sick; exhausted from our plunder, and our exploitation, from all our g nawing, burning, breaking,  pumping, dumping… From all of our greed. From all of our poison!  Droughts where once were floods Floods where once were droughts Dead trees, Dead rivers, Dead elephants, Dead donkeys, Dead butterflies and soon,

The rains are now a distant memory; All that was green now a dusty brown  Over the hills and vales, and  through every crack and crevice, the dusty gusts rummage. The land, is blanketed by a chilly fog of dust, stirred by persistent long drafts, The mighty Harmattan. That leaves the streams thirsty, kisses dry lips bloody, cracks heels and soles sore,  makes dry tunnels of our noses, stretches our skins taut dry, making a bruise thrice as painful, a playful pat on the back quite a punishment to giver and receiver,  and dashing the foot against a stone  brings tears to the eyes of a grown man. Yes, that's the Harmattan!  The north wind that sweeps the land; bringing the flu, the cough, and the cold. Sends us all to bed sooner, and wakes us later, makes the children skip bathing,  and our mothers conceive sooner, yes, that's the Harmattan. What shall we give to appease your chill? Tattered sweaters on bony frames and early fires from every compound, men, women and children gather