Listen to poem:
The Big Dry
We wait the rains over field and meadow
on plain and high country for so long quelled.
To dampen cracked earth, to make all things grow
till the crops are in and the herds have swelled.
Waiting the season’s drought-breaking falls
when the grid’s mighty river turbines turn -
Pacific gales and wild Southern Ocean squalls
on grove and vine and forest silver fern.
Where are the cloudbursts a summer storm brings,
flash of thunderbolts hurled from the sky?
The sunlit circle arc mists of rainbow rings
over catchment to end the long Big Dry.
Soon off the Roaring Forties come the rains
over eastern range and Canterbury Plains -
and soon its dams on river and farm and mill
will April falls return and once more fill.
Written: July 1992
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