The clouds have hung heavy
in the pregnant skies
For days on end now.
Through the oppressive heat
And the lingering sweat,
People have looked at them,
With eyes forlorn,
Waiting for the rain,
That the clouds seem to promise
Will arrive soon,
Riding on a downpour.

When the rain comes finally,
It is not as if
The floodgates opened –
Nor even a garden sprinkler at its peak.
If it were a steady drizzle,
Even that would be a welcome relief –
But no, it was none of these.

The rain came down,
No, it hung in the air,
Like the suspended disbelief
Of the human collective,
That saw the condensation
Rather than feel it –
For it was nothing more than
A vast expanse of mist.

The sweat hangs close to the brow,
The upper lip, and then crawls down
The sweaty skin, beneath sticky clothing.
There is no dearth of moisture here,
The clouds haven’t failed,
The fault lay in their faith.