THE MORNING RAIN

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.

 

 

 

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