It seems our godless land is cursed
By drought; my yard cries out in thirst.
The lawn is like a mottled skin
Shed by a reptile, dry and thin.
The water, scarce, is rationed here,
And only gold is held as dear.
But even that, when in the heat,
Will take, to water, second seat.
The rules are I must hold a hose
And only in the times they chose.
I thus protect my precious slot –
Except, by chance, I once forgot
Until the sun had slipped away
And all the stars were out to play.
I could not let my hours pass;
At night, I watered woeful grass.
I watered till the water ran,
Made little rivers like the Dan
Among the shoots, the green not seen
Except for patches in between.
The moon was out; it beamed upon
My watered work and sparkles shown
Like diamonds strewn across my land –
The beauty of that night was grand.
And while I marveled at the sight
Of aesthetic jewels at night,
For life, not “like”, the blades gave thanks
And stored them in their grassy banks.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.
The Bard on the Hill 