Dust-laden hot winds blew
Across the parched plains from Inca.
Our solitary villa’s palm-trees
Became agitated,
Shutters rattled and the turquoise pool shivered.
The tranquil Chinese watercolour
Of the Mallorcan mountains
Formed a theatrical backdrop
For the storm-scene that was soon to dissolve
Daylight into twilight.
Branches of the hysterical palms
Rattled like sharpening sabres,
Doors like dramatic arguments slammed
As the sun-baked balcony
Darkened.
Distant donkeys,
Now silenced and complacent
Looked on as hawks hi-jacked,
The winds, circled and dived
Oblivious to the empty beaches.
Away on the brooding horizon
The evening skies of
Alcudia and old Pollensa
Erupted – competed and celebrated
With fireworks
Past conflicts, victories over the Moors.
But tonight,
It was the silhouetted mountains
Whose trapped and manic lightening
Became centre-stage and stole the show.
The long overdue and driving rain
Pounded the arid plain and dusty walkways
Making little impression
On the bronzed and stony soils
Surrounding our lofty villa.
The sauna-like steaminess
That greeted the dawn left
Beach lovers, like potted cacti gasping and
Gladdened by this unexpected respite from
The Drought.
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