Which smell is that of rain?

The leaves are a thirsty mat

For tired feet and scurrying paws

Seeking shelter beneath the cashew tree

A lone cashew tree stranded in the abandoned farm

Alone amongst the charred earth

All bare to the drying rays.

The leaves are cool to our calloused feet

Silently parting with dignified swish and crumble

Trying and failing to keep the silence of a hot bare day. 

We don’t come out to watch the corn wave in the breeze

They are long gone

We don’t come out to scare the crows and the weaver birds

They are long gone

In search of green shoots further afield.

Further than we can see across the empty fields

Further than we can see from the hilltop beside the dry well.

The sky is clear

And silent.

Beneath the cashew tree, we seat and count the days from the last rain fall

We have counted with stones laid in spiral

We have counted with lines and crosses

As the sun comes each day

And the leaves make a bigger mat

And shyly leave the shadow of the tree

Whispering in the wind across the field. 

The field now abandoned around

The cashew tree stranded with us in the afternoon heat

We should not have murdered the rain makers.

We know.

We should not have taxed the farmer.

We know.

We should not have cut the trees.

We know.

We should not have built the castle

That one of a million bricks

Hollowed our of the fields

And burnt with the charcoal from our tree trunks.

The castle too stands alone and scared

As we all seat beneath the cashew tree

And count the days since the last rain.

Our eyes are on the road

But no look out is running over the hills with a wet shirt

So we sit and look at each other

And look at the leaves

And the dry field

And think of which smell is that of rain.