It has been raining here, and as I sit outside and look at the cloudy sky
and the wet green grass on the ground, it all but reminds me about "nawet" in
the Gambia. Thus this poem.
From the verandah
of my grandmother's hut
I watch the watery eyes
of the sky above
pours down
on the old corrugated kitchen roof
and the cold sea-blue water
pelts its pit-a-pat droppings
into the empty buckets underneath.
I watch
as the rain pours
and the leaves drip
their silvery wetness
on the fertile ground
my squinted eyes follow
the many rivulets of water
build up into a stream
and gushes out
into the wet sandy street.
And when the rain stops
the tiny green worms
crawl voraciously
and litter the brown earth
ready to devour
the sprouting green grasses
their bloated green entrails
smashed under heavy scurrying feet.
I follow
the narrow wet path
to the tree clustered rice fields
and my mother dexterously
planted single blades of rice
buried knee-deep under the rain water
on mounds of soil fertilized by cow dung.
I listen
to the rice field birds sing
their melodious songs
compliment the joyful humming
of my mother with a radiant face
as the blades of rice
soars above the muddy water.
Rene
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