A Dracula drank soil’s blood
in spring and clouds refused to shed
their load of collected sorrow before
the middle of October.
The landscape jaundiced and leaves on
trees petrified with rusty bits of metal
that clanked abjectly in a breeze that
tasted of dust and reheated air.
In the stale heat of the night, thoughts
ran free to dream of mountain lakes,
deep fjords and cascades of sweet water
in a landscape green and wondrous.
Teasingly, heavy clouds came from
the north shed loads of liquid pearls that
rolled like tobacco spittle on parched
ground and nature held its breath.
The downpour didn’t last very long,
but long enough for the landscape to
not give up hope and become a new
Sahara only fit for scorpions.
