The promise

The Promise

Women stand
in a field,
grouped close
for comfort
from a reality
too harsh to be alone in.

They are waiting
for a promise made,
and hoping it is kept
as their skin wrinkles
and their clothes become tattered.

Not really the sad ones are they,
waiting
but in truth
are trees in a field.

Below and beyond them,
the bones of a once lush, green field
grasp at the sky,
rasping in parched voices
mimicking the wind
whose breezes blow above their reach.

It is a dead calm,
and the few shrubs remaining
lift their arms
in a desperate cry.

"Where is the rain?" they plead
as their roots still search an answer.

And then it comes.
From the edges of the sky they gather,
billowing puffs
full with the answer of a promise.

The first life giving drops
caress
the dry dusty ground.

The rain gives the life
back to the land.

It's life
a dark green,
deeper green,
ever more alive,
then the dried out deadness
of a hot summers day.

copyright- Peggy von Burkleo

I don't know...
I've just been thinking a lot about the weather lately. The winter has been leaving in fits and gasps giving a succession of false springs and chilled storms. The seasons pass on as I listen to the rhythm of the raindrops on the tin roof. The ocean this year has been at times slate gray and azure blue, streaked with purple on the dark horizon. The horses of Manannan, those giant waves, toss their manes boldly against the breakers. There is a color present, in the rain, a depth of tone richer than any I've found in the summer sun. Tree barks become shades of blue and silvers, with gold or purple peaking out at unexpected times. Greens too are far more lush, and hold a vibrancy in the twilight. There is a crispness in the air, in the scent of the forest, mulching and secretive and smelling of hidden mushrooms. In the briny sea spray, on the sent of an oak wood fire.