Dame Drought

She’s weaving lies on the loom of the skies –
The farmers know.
They know her dyes from old Julys –
The same winds blow.
She cleverly tries to dazzle their eyes
“your crops will grow.”
With hope of rain that will save their grain.
But they’re too wise.
Her shuttles clack but the earth grows black
And cattle die in the fields.
Warp says ‘clouds’ while weft makes shrouds
As she sings always of sun.
The fabric’s blue, no rain in view
Their farming days are done.