The Minister is coming, they say—
A storm too, the wind its rumour
Running ahead of it.
The minister, they say, wants to—
land his private jet here, if he can.
Last week one tiny plane managed
To bog itself in the airstrip sand.
The coming storm decorates a setting sun—
With ripped up gothic clouds in greys
And black. It’s definitely coming.
The minister, who’s coming , they say,
Will come with bags of money—
(which government exactly is he from?)
though no one can remember
applying for the Grant he’s bringing.
Day’s end children jump and laugh
On a sagging green tarpaulin tied
Over the town’s water tank until
They’re shouted down by parents
into the dark blushing road’s last heat.
(I understand their desire for bare feet.)
We look forward to whatever
The storm is bringing in its wake.
We drag shadows like sheets over us now.
I like it very much. The juxtaposition between the minister and the storm works so well in the first section and then there is an amazing turn in the final two stanzas.
ReplyDeleteI really like the tone - the admixture of cynicism and beauty, and the sense of the threat of loss in the heart of political 'generosity'...your poetry makes me want to shirtfront the lot of them.....
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