In Mendaala with the Rains
By Peter Crowther
They squint and splatter through the dust
and along the pollen-crusted streets...
across the tattered mosaics and over weathered images
of those now long since gone.
See the water run!
Down the narrow golden pavings
into deep and darkened sewers,
through the ravings of crustaceans gently loosened by the swell.
The rains may seep to Hell...
or even places further:
none can tell.
There is no-one.
No-one to tend the ragged tapestries
hanging in the dark deserted rooms.
The city is alone...
unto itself--
like a frosted barren womb it gives up nothing,
and still nothing it accepts.
And with the rains, the wind.
Soft...
gentle...
it blows dust along the halls of marble
into rooms of silk and down-filled cushions.
While, all through the weather,
only the silent walk of spiders disturbs the silent beauty;
and, outside, the gleaming empty turrets
scratch the stormy skies,
and fabled stone-sunk jewels glitter
like a host of watchful eyes.
But the rains will stop.
The sun will come and dry the streets--
it always does.
And Mendaala will be clean again...
if nothing else.
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