Harmattan Poem by ANTHONY ANIGBATA

HARMATTAN

The rain has rain away
The sun on this shore
Dried are crops and stalks
Falling for the locust
In the undergrowth

The Spyros sing songs
Of the hungry
The ground drained
Of the tears of all wailing sky
The grasses wore brown gowns
Herbivores looking for what to gob

Year after year it comes
To their region a visitor
Drying up wells like shells
Of palm kernel

Fallen foliage fill, the brown floors
Cleared lips
And soles seen in the streets
Black skins get as white as snow
Hurrying westeries carry
Dust as they
Wrestle with unseen spirits

Harsh cloud comes touching
Everything
With their nerve pinching pricks
Sky sunny and dried
Women must oil their skin
To shine like silvery wares

The harmattan is here, the harmattan is here
That season that dry up the
Beet in the bush
And still sucks, the skin dry.

Then rain has rain away
The sun on this shore
Dried are songs and stalks
Falling for the locust
In the undergrowth.