. Burnt red faces, us children as warlocks thirsty drinks of orange squash in the garden dust sounds of the summer radio and mothers sweaty love . holding hands in a Druid circle we summon the rain gods from a yellowing lawn while thunder clouds be rolling, flashes of the lightning frightening to the darkening skies we call . ‘’Shall we dance’’ I said, ‘’shall we dance us three?’’ I made a chant, a song, a war cry, a plea bare legged we, watched to see for the heavy rain . kicking and cycling our legs in the air screaming at the sky throwing stones baring sticks building sacrificial columns and crafting tricks to incite the sky, to cry . at last, a drizzle of rain that does not repent father is pulling on his cigarette thus smoke signals to the wind thus Mother is calling us in . above us, clouds of no direction that seem to spin to where we be to deliver that downpour thus flooding our sandalled feet
The Pine Cone Review 