From My Sketchbook by Margaret Webb

The Sun

The sun rises up every morn
Dressed in his suit of gold
His arms spread out
He reaches high
Slowly he rises up into the sky
Slowly he rises step by step
A vivid picture so bright
Then at dusk down he goes
To be overtaken by night.


The ground is dry
The grass is brown
No rain has fallen
The farmers frown.

The cattle are parched
With the heat of the day
They feel so languid
They just can’t stray.

A few clouds drift across
The brilliant blue sky
The sky and clouds darken
“Let’s hope it rains,” we cry.

The sweet gentle rain
Comes at long last
The drought has broken
The drought is past.

Poems © Margaret Jeune 2019