The year is withering: the wind
Blows down the leaves;
Men stand under eaves
And overhead the secrets
Of the cold dry wind,
Of the half-bare trees
The grasses are tall and tinted,
Straw gold hues of dryness,
And the contradicting awryness
Of the dusty roads a-scatter
With the peals of colourful leaves,
With ghosts of the dreaming year.
And soon, soon the fires,
The fires will begin to burn,
The hawk will flutter and turn
On its wings and swoop for the mouse,
The dogs will run for the hare,
The hare for its little life.
"The Dry Season" is the sixth, and final, of our series of poems on the Harmattan . The fun isn't over yet, though! Due to the popularity of the series, new poems about the Harmattan will appear sporadically throughout the remainder of 2010, and will be collected here.