We called it the lightning tree. Stunted and blackened it stood resolute, stark against the moon-bright night, while shooting stars circled wildly over the soft, velvet plain. Here we farmed, here cattle roamed over long-stemmed grass and here we were happy.
but drought-stricken land
thirsted for seven summers:
grass withered, we fled.
The lightning tree still stands, its final branch fallen, the stars the only witnesses. Finally, the rains return, falling softly, pattering on the parched land, washing over sun-bleached rocks and the desolate dried-up plain.
the ground drinks deeply
yellow and pink flowers bloom
but no-one will see.
The lightning tree still stands, but no-one sees but the stars.
Image credit: Tasos Mansour @ Unsplash
The image shows a crooked tree with bare branches. In the background stars in the sky can be seen forming streaks in a circular fashion.