The Rainmaker

We needed it—and he stood there,

feet on the dry porch, saying rain,

cloud and skyful, the sound of drumming;

the bath trough in the garden listened,

white and bone dry, as he described

a bright wash across the dust fields,

the surest downpour, the flushed skin,

my soaked shirt, heavy as a bell.

Then off he went to the scorched fields,

humming, and weighing what we paid.

What did he say: prayer is moisture;

hope is a well—I didn’t care,

I wanted just the words from him—

what I couldn’t dare say—not there

beneath that sun, that blur of fire-sky.

My thoughts all thoughts of water, I

spun my head round—to hear the spill

of the word rain across the boards,

and nothing grew dark, nothing fell—

but something fell, and the ground took,

and something wild as garlic grew.

Notes:

This poem is part of a portfolio of work on the occasion of Edwin Morgan’s centenary. Read the introduction by James McGonigal here.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2020)