Wilfred H. Taylor
It rains no more for the sky is blue
And, underfoot, the red earth is warm again.
Thatches on houses are vappour shrouded
And there is that smell of clean air about.
The roadside shrubs
Now summer green
Wave to catch the eyes of passers-by
Relieved from the pre-storm tension,
Laugh as they play and run about
Lithe and languid tall,
Sway in the breeze
What is left of the rain.
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