The Dry Season By Kwesi Brew

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 The Dry Season

By

Kwesi Brew

The year is withering; the wind 

Blows down the leaves; 

Men stand under eaves 

And overhear the secrets 

Of the cold dry wind, 

Of the half-bare trees.

The grasses are tall and tinted, 

Straw-gold hues of dryness, 

And the contradicting awryness, 

Of the dusty roads a-scatter 

With pools of colourful leaves, 

With ghosts of the dreaming year.

And soon, soon the fires, 

The fires will begin to burn, 

The hawk will flutter and turn 

On its wings and swoop for the mouse, 

The dogs will run for the hare, 

The hare for its little life.