Dried up.
Like the dregs of
a storm in a tea cup.
No more tears can I cry.
I ask myself why.
Gazing into the yonder grey sky.
Rain pours from the gutters.
All the shutters.
Flung open, outspoken.
The oaken summer guest house.
Doused in soft light.
The days sodden blight took flight.
A warm sun over the horizon,
only a few wisps of white
in the vast blue sky.
After all the clouds and confusion
of the close-season.
A glorious summer is breaking.
Dried Up
thejrpc 