I sweat.

Labouring, I breathe,

yet I do not seek reprieve

from this air that thick surrounds me,

this sun that burns and browns me,

this land of bold resilience, yet fragile beauty still

We all cry for rain.

The sandy creek, once proud, lays dry

and dust, in flurries, swirl the sky.

How long? Tonight?

"How soon?" we cry…

The rugged hills stand silent.

Jutting, craggy crevice, broken

stubby branches claw.

The strong, tenacious, cling to life,

as lovers, wanting more.

Yearning touch. An urgent lust.

All pretence laid bare.

Open to the rumbling sky

as lightning teases there…

Please rain.

At last! First kiss. A soft caress.

In rapture now, we sway.

A lovers dance. Oh, sweet romance.

To life, we drink today.

And soaking deep the splendour,

we laugh, in bliss, amazed,

as the rhythm builds and rivers run,

birds sing songs of praise

and

the earth sighs relief

in the sweet, desert rain.

© Copyright. Peter Healy. All rights reserved. No part of this written work may be reproduced by any means; including but not limited to mechanical, photographic, digital, Internet or other electronic process; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use; without the expressed written permission of Peter Healy.