Poetry

Drought

We clung -

clung onto sticky hours,

knowing that summer skies were fading

and that we could no longer drink up the thirst.

We drove, seeking rehydration.

The cracks in the road were laid out before our eyes,

like the tiles in our kitchen - the bare ruins of the earth.

The fields were overripe, suffocated by thirsty light.

Roots refused to shoot up.

The engine gulped at the last of the petrol.

But then you found it:

A bottle for you.

Downed it in one.

Lucy Smith

© 2014