Spanish summer’s interrupted.
Like the cricket, rain’s stopped play.
Distant views, by heat corrupted
are no more and grass holds sway.
And in the town the wadi wakens
dried up river bed no more.
The sad small widdle down the middle
now a roar from shore to shore.
Rods of rain will come to greet you
soon, the racing spray forewarns.
And people rush to close up windows
bring in washing, shut up doors.
Soon they’ll know the sights that we know
no more dust, but muddy floors.
And when the wadi’s roar’s abated,
down the way beyond the bridge
that sad neglected shopping trolley’s
now a bashed and battered fridge.