The Year

The sun still shines all day long and harsh;

Grasses dry up, thriving only in the marsh;

Withered leaves fly down, leaving branches bare;

In January, harmattan dust rules the air.

 

Bees are busy on trees flowers festoon;

Farmers prepare the soil, expecting rain soon;

Smoke from bush burning and dust still reign;

February may bring brief showers of rain.

 

Few moments of downpour send the farmers

Picking hoes and seeds to plant en masse;

The soil is scratched and seeds are sown –

March is the very month most crops are grown.

 

The earth is clothed in varied hues of green;

The storm clouds gather and the sky gets mean:

In April – lightning, rumble and thunder blast

Bring back constant rain at long last.

 

In May, various farm produce floods the markets

Just as the steady drizzle fills the buckets;

Bad roads retain water in myriad potholes

As puddles become infested with tadpoles.

 

The sun is firmly shackled in June –

This fate also befalls the stars and moon; 

A blazing fire in every home is a welcome sight

But for the poor, getting fuel is a plight.

 

Steady downpour than drizzle comes in July;

Spouses snuggle close as in bed they lie.

The tempo of business is on the decline

Just as those in flood-prone areas face a hard time.

 

August brings a short break in the rains;

The sun beams again across at his friends;

The moon gleefully whistles to the stars

But in two weeks they’ll again be behind bars.

 

Clearly, the jailer tussles the prisoner –

The sun’s presence is remarkable in September;

He alone steals the show during the day

But at night the torrential rain still holds sway.

 

October, the masquerade ends its season:

Blue skies tell of the sun’s freedom from prison.

‘Harvest quickly before the earth hardens,’ farmers cry;

Puddles dry and specks of dust everywhere fly.

 

November strolls in with the feel of harmattan;

Dry chilly air is what nature does fan;

Skin and lips are chapped, leaves wither and fall;

Gradually undressed, trees stand straggly tall.

 

Bush is cleared and land prepared in December.

Brooks dry up, predators catch stranded fish and dismember.

Fireworks and bangers usher in the New Year:

Hurray! Another twelve months roll in at top gear.

(This poem is from the collection, 'COLOURS (OF LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH)', which is available here.)