A pall of smoke, like ghosts that softly creep,
Hangs heavy ‘cross the vale, the hills asleep;
The air, once crisp, is thick with ashen breath,
As though the earth itself were stifled—death.
The trees stand still, their leaves devoid of song,
And in the lane the weary traveller throng,
Their limbs encumber’d, hearts with sorrow weigh’d,
For daylight’s joy in murkiness laid.
The sun, a muted orb, through haze doth peer,
Its golden warmth a memory, not near;
And all the world beneath this smoky shroud
Moves like a dream, confused, and half unbow’d.
Yet lo! A change—a whisper on the breeze,
The air grows taut, and stirs with sudden pleas;
The sky, once dark with suff’rance, cracks and bends,
And from her bosom rain’s sweet mercy sends.
It falls, a gentle torrent from the sky,
Each drop a soft rebuke to earth’s bold sigh.
It clears the air and soothes the aching breast,
With liquid hands it bids the world find rest.
The smoke, like shadows, lifts and drifts away,
And all the land resumes its waking day;
The meadow brightens, once more bathed in light,
And morning wakes from slumber’s smoky night.
How wondrous is the rain, so soft, so true,
That cleanses all, and makes the world anew.
It falls upon the heart, it falls upon the mind,
And bids the troubled soul a balm to find.
Let this be known, ye weary souls who sigh,
That though the smoke may choke the weary eye,
The rain, though faint, shall come to ease thy pain,
And wash the world, and thou shalt breathe again.
The CJBuzz 