Rain Dance Poem by Anthony Dawson

Clouds are my moving treasure, free, abundant, looming

as grey death or simply washing clean a slate of trials.

Hush your cries,

learn from your stolen promises;

the sun is no longer as certain as the expected death of a window

fly, and still your anger presides, your control is lost.

The grey day changes your patterns and scenes.



I dance,

bringing on a thunderous clap,

streaks in the sky charged with the power of spirits, the dead,

back to haunt our physical plane.

A legion of droplets scour the ground,

and just for a moment conjure enough madness to drift away.