The Drylands

There were days the rain came,
tap dancing into torrents,
turning up, like tea cups, the fat red splats of earth.
And children danced in currents of fast-flooding puddles,
muddy faces flushed with giddy mirth.
The hills became a playground, tended by the bee’s droll choir
and every tree unclimbed grew greener, higher,
and every bright new flower was a birth.

© Karin Cox 2005