THIRST

Mud pots and metal pots, mute representatives

of thirst with parched and gaping mouths,

Cluster round the water pipes, their smooth surfaces

Glistening like oil smeared on bald pates.

The clouds white with heat, will they melt?

The taps so dry, how much will they give?

When the hour comes,–

There’s scrambling and a striking,

A crash of thirstful haste.

But the taps yield only a thin trickle, like milk

Squeezed from the udder of a starved cow.

Thirst must go unquenched.

A mournful silence reigns again and

Rises to meet the hot vapours.

The pots lie scattered, some broken in the fray,

The rest are flayed by the sun.

–‘BURDIE’

Back