When does the drought end?


I never saw the islands here

Hidden from me in the mists

Though I have wandered here often

Seeking solice at the river side

I can find no where else

I always the roots

Buried deep into the banks

Like desperate fingers clinging

To the last of soil

Before fate or some other force

Swept them away

My own fingers aching

With a similar attempt

At clinging to a life

That has buried me as deep.

It is the drought

That dredges up the hidden things,

Shows the detritus deep water


My mind full of broken bottles

And rusted tin cans

And a small trickle of hope

Between them

I hear the squawk of ducks and geese

As if inside my head

Landlord and debt collectors

Pecking at me

For what I cannot give,

I feel as crowded

As the striped bass

Caught in the shrinking pools

Easy pickings to the perpetual

Pecks of savage beaks,

Me and they


If and when

The drought

Might end.


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