A wet summer

The brooding clouds are here, they fret

La nina soaks us wet,

Summer’s sun now drips in rain,

El Verano’s lost again

No more rasping burn of sand,

For drunken is the land,

The ruddy earth has turned to green,

The rivers, blue unseen

And yet, not so very long ago,

The world was all aglow,

Not aurora or a bright sunrise

But cinder filled our skies

Days and nights, were furnaced all,

The wild left sans a call,

No, let summer come in nimbus curled

Who wants a burning world?

Perspective - smiles the soggy days,

As Summer walks the haze -

Not of smoke, but dripping mist

The rains, a better tryst

It is a wet summer again - and whether we like it or not, it is perhaps a blessing in this driest part of the world. Yes, you wake up, and instead of bright mustard sun spread on bluish skies, grey slaty clouds drape summer in rains, but isn’t it far better than waking up and seeing the world continue to burn - as was the case 2 years back, when the gum trees made tinder dry by years of dessication decided to redefine our understanding of a conflagration. Instead, a benevolent summer keeps painting the world with a wet green brush to soothe an already disturbed earth, and create cataracts where emptiness flowed. 

For those like me who hail from the land of the eternal monsoons, or others who have been overwhelmed by the wilderness of the Atlantic, the mizzle and drizzle of a wet summer are but quaint memories that come alive all over again, opening books that are but omnibuses of drizzling days. The rains then sometimes, indeed make for a more romantic tryst, not just with parched summer lands, but also with parched summer souls…

4th December, 21