It leaves the mountains covered in snow
And dumps its rain beside the hills,
Filling near-empty dams but
Causing flooding in the dells.
This wind echoes the sound of the sea
A thousand miles in its wake,
But the land in the east is dry as a bone
And there’s naught its thirst to slake.
Warm and snug in bed I lie,
Thinking of those who, unlike I,
Huddle under the cold black sky
And I wonder, ‘Why?’
© Denise G Allen 15 July 2012 06:07