AFA

Pol Ndu

 Here again, worshipper,

I bend low and whisper:

when rain was gone

and sun over-spent hours

in violent evenings

hoes hung  brown on low eaves;

now pilgrim birds troop across the dimmed horison,

bereaved kites abandon smoky fields

into  tunes of frustrated loneliness

tell me, my sky – god,

what holds back the rain.