Eagerly awaited in parched places
producing life in desert oases
feared in low-lying river basins
suffered stoically on vacation
welcomed by gardeners
inhaling petrichor* with appreciation.
* Petrichor – the smell given off by rain falling on dry earth.
I’m struggling to write anything at all, but had to have a go at the Poetics prompt for dVerse, having lived in the tropics and suffered the twitchy days before the monsoon changed.
Likewise, my wild muse has gone walkabout without me for Sally’s challenge, largely because of the murderous mowings of my village. Yes, they’ve shaved the banks again yesterday, for the third time in recent weeks. I tore the tractor driver off a bit of a strip and consequently he stopped cutting when he came to our bank, but everywhere else is scorched earth.