The wheat in spring was like a giant’s bolt of silk
Unrolled over the earth.
When the wind sprang
It rippled as if a great broad snake
Moved under the green sheet,
Seeking its outward way to light.
In autumn it was an ocean of flecked gold,
Sweet as a biscuit, breaking in crisp waves
That never shattered, never blurred in foam.
That was the last good year….
They said, “Sure it’ll rain next year!”
When that was dry, “Well, next year anyway.”
Then “Next—“
The sun goes down. Earth like a thick black coin
Leans its round rim against the yellowed sky.
The air cools. Kerosene lamps are filled and lit
In dusty windows. Tired bodies crave to lie
In bed forever. Chores are done at last.
...will it never rain again? What about
those clouds out west? No, that’s just dust, as thick
and stifling now as winter underwear.
No rain, no crop, no feed, no faith, only
wind.
By Ann Marriott from The Circular Coast Oakville , Ontario
The prairies in the 1930s suffered the double disaster of economic depression and drought. In this poem the poet vividly describes the effects of wind and drought on both the physical environment and on the people’s spirits
"he that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap"
Ecclesiates 11:4
Ecclesiates 11:4
