When No Clouds Line The Horizon

No signs of rain, yet still he waits,
Eyes upturned, wishing a pouring heaven.
Yet nothing his way does flow besides,
The wind from a desert once glen.

In his eyes he has seen the Ocean,
But feet never left his fallow land.
Dying is the unborn, as pregnant Earth,
Is parched as thirsty sand.

If tears could quench his thirsty Land,
The Rivers would, an Ocean be made.
But look what angry sun has wrought,
For tears have dried unmade.

He stands over the roots of,
A Tree ancient and knotted.
As he looks away and over the forest vale,
Where the dusky woods have rotted.

Entranced he moves, towards salvation,
When a buzzing awakens afar.
He turns to see the ague of grain,
For their due, have come from far.

With sad eyes over the Locusts wild,
And lips cracked into a last grin.
Over flung he, the catcher of Rye,
Into the blighted fen within.