The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.
And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.
The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.
So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.
Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.
