It Would Rain on That Saturday | Ken Allan Dronsfield

Absence of pearls in a grand ocean mollusk
crying self-righteousness without salty tears
seeking to find truth in an unrelenting fervor
watch the dark floating in a twilight’s fear.
Dancing in the dark, or waltzing in a whirlwind
depraved and decrepit as a one-legged snake
sweet tea from the spot in a cherry wood box
steeped in red clay pots amongst the ingrates.
Lightning strikes throughout the lower tree line
disturbing thoughts of ambivalence in dreams
hoods in mourning whilst a crypt-like fog lifts
gates of iron hold the spirit deep within.
Rain hits upon leaves making a steady tapping
bare feet hit the road, a slippery slope aghast
a poncho saves the day, in a simple pious way
for we all knew it would rain, on that Saturday.