Damp

Yesterday you leave,
the palest day for months.
Misty clouds grey out my hill
enveloping the trees
and fade into my eyes.

As soon as you arrive
a hurricane strikes the island
of your exile.
You've taken all the wind.
Trees are uprooted.
Rivers flood.
Mountains fall.
Countless lives are lost.
Probably mine is too.

When I wake today
I'm lying on the hill.
My face is wet.
The rain has come at last.

Dennis List