THE MORNING RAIN
The cool breeze made us sink deeper
across the ocean of slumber
sailing pass half-dead.
Then came the sound;
the hypnotic melody
and we knew there was no escape
from the great drummer.
Tom, tom, tom…
It started with a slow beat
luring us from the smooth,
delicate hands of deep slumber.
The drummer drummed hard and fast
on our brown rusted roof
robbing it of it colour
while hissing and whispering
a perfect harmonious song.
Mother rushed out
with buckets and bowls;
The drummer’s hands
must be imprisoned for rainy days.
Free from the clutch of slumber
we ran after mother into the open air
as she screamed, calling us back.
“Come back here! You little rascals
Or the cold would get you and see if I care”
We ignored her plea,
dancing to the songs of the night
as the drummer turned our skin
into his new drum.