On their easterly path
To soak, to surprise, to ruin the days
Of their next victims
They leave behind air thick with mist
Smelling heavily of roses
And the threat of ocean from heaven
Once again
Blue, gray, murky, opaque
A hand passes slowly through the mist
Catching sparkles of moisture
Which glitter on the tanned, dirt-laced working gloves
Callused from labour and time
Time slows
Hands tick slowly... more slowly...
Motionless
Backwards
Sun suspended somewhere beyond
The thick net of vapour
Which eludes the eyes
Eyes mistaking rivers for skies, skies for rivers
In the gathering gloom
Salted water weaves through fields
Wheat which sways in dry summer heat
Now drips, leans, bends
In wet, still, sorrow
Tears roll down
Written July 27, 2005 (found in a drawer on April 9, 2016)
