Harmattan Poem by Enoch Cole

HARMATTAN
The cold: it pours as ice on our skin,
The gelid grapples our rind,
And our combats resemble those of the fishes scales.
That when we chafe our smarting occurrence we view the upshot on our coating sallow and chalky.

The cold: it pours as ice on our skin.
Whenever the wind blows in a waft or draft takes a seat.
We are pondering the timid and concerned mood our forgone begetters were at their initial experience of this atmospheric nature being damn frigid.
Because even the sun's reign during this circle stands ineffectual.
As a matter of fact the sunlight makes us dizzy.
Dost our neighbors degenerate to dust and regenerate from ice?
Likewise us.
Because we perceive an unusual experience tops on us.
That chilly feel whenever we touch,
Somethings we sense by the feel or clutch.
Scribble scarce about water, let's spare that for the pouch.

The cold: it pours as ice on our skin.
Chapped lips, rough crust, gritty vision.
Harmattan what's your mission.
The breeze is uncontrollable and chilly.
At night we don't know what's our utmost longing,
The bed or the sheeting.
To battle it all way out combating harmattan's cold.
Harmattan,
A season with tough pattern.
Cold dry wind with heavy dust laden particles.
Wide fluctuations in day and night ambient temperatures.
Year complementing rules.
©Talentrocks✍️✍️🖌️🖌️