Dust Beneath Our Red-Rimmed Eyes

We dream of rain, we see pregnant clouds
lumber towards the valleys shrouded in
grey mist, hear them bump and complain,
feel their contorted agonies as they flare
and fall grotesque in the cold-rinsed air.

And borne on a sharp breeze the first bite
of the first drop of the last deluge before
we dry into dust and drown in salt tears
faint hope springs – and the sweet pit pat
crescendos to a manic roar rising.

All as before we dreamed is there, and in
the gathering light after the storm, in the
cleansed air as clear as glass crystal we see
our tear-stained reflections, streams run blood
in the dust beneath our red-rimmed eyes.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-29