matt's notebook

Promise of rain

The trees blinding the sun,
the dusk can be borrowed
to watch the puffadder
down the dry well race

against itself, marooned
on the clay floor, pinioned
by a column of air,

the clear, weightless mass
of the sky expanded
by the drought, perfumed

with sweat and dew escaped
from the sprinkler bathing
the rose garden, knowing

that soon the well will brim,
tower towards the clouds
which, stacked before the hills,
taste the promise of rain.

Matthew John Williams