Friday, 27 May 2011

Of Clouds: The False Rain Maker

Image supplied by Theme Thursday

My Son, Son of the Bull,
Clouds are our ancestors too
They tell us so many things
In wisdom, in careful measured words

If you see the clouds
Azure, as innocent as a calf
In a pen, don’t be deceived
In my time I have seen them quickly gather
And pour like shards of glass on my bald
And when I am drenched scatter
Away and let sun shine
Letting people wonder who,
In his madness, poured me bucketfuls of water

Then there are those dark clouds
Hanging atop Kacheliba Hill
Dark, furious, deathly
As if they will flood the hill itself
To add effect, the clouds rumble
And throw in a few flashes here
It sends everyone in panic
Soon, drying maize in the homestead
Is rushed to the hut
Wet clothes hurriedly picked from thorn trees
Children pinched to stay in the hut
And then, in wicked sense of humour,
The clouds clear away
Laughing all the way
But perhaps in guilt
They let a few drizzles here
Hardly to clear the dust

So son, Son of the Bull,
Of the knowledge of the clouds I cannot
Pretend to have
I once heard a Rain Maker in the village beyond
Who, with the experience, mistook cirrus clouds
For cumulo-nimbus clouds
Then who am I, a mere pair of half-shut eyes
To interpret the divine nature of the clouds?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt Theme Thursday # Clouds


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