Tired eyes take in the angry view.
Parched lips long for a drop of rain.
The years of drought have come again.
The distance holds a smoky glare.
The smell of burning wood is there
As we awake and turn to run
The victims of relentless sun
While over head the planes pass by
And drop the water from the sky.
We hope our homes will be passed when
The flames seek out the hot dry glen
That once held water, trees and shade.
We wonder at this world we’ve made
That seemed so endless just last year
But now becomes our land of fear.
© 2012 Pam H. Murray
July 22, 2012
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