The Trading Post

         And the rain falls.

It nestles in wet intervals on weeds

Like a brief season of glistening eggs,

Flicking tails on iron fences, begging

In pale mud, decorating a yellow

And white umbrella with an odour

Of quiet murder.

 Outside, the people are laughing

 At drunks. They smoke damp cigarettes

 And shout at the wheels of broken trucks;

 They are tired, and their toes shine

 Like the petals of a red hibiscus

 As they walk the road.

 By a fresh water pool

 A woman is washing her clothes,

 Singing,

          "wherever you will go I will go,

            wherever you lead so shall I lead,

            your people are my people

            and your God is my God too –"

         And the rain falls.

 It nestles in wet intervals on weeds

 Like a brief season of glistening eggs.