Exam - Poem by Danielle Ward
The river has not flowed in minutes,
The bed is dry, harsh, white as a desert,
Clean cut lines cracking the land
Where ink once ran.
A shadow, sharp point,
The land seeks the touch of liquid,
Every passing second dripping past.
Then, as hope springs eternal,
The oily shower finally falls
And the river runs once more,
Gushing the sound of words and water.
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