Harmattan
Chalk-white faces, chapped lips and infected footsoles,
Harmattan, she has come again, announcing her
presence like a proud royalty's entourage.
Mothers clad their infants in thick clothes
like north pole elves,
motorcyclists cruise around town with watery eyes
mourning the chill of the early morning continental
trade wind.
Dry tree leaves dance to the rhythm of the wind,
the dance of death, as they fall to the ground
amid rising dust, dry air and hazy skies,
gathering mist sits atop the mountain like a crown
on a King's head.
The local tea shop owner beams with a toothless
smile envisaging high patronage, and from the
eastern horizon a seemingly shy
thermal source rises slowly
Copyright © Ibukun Tosin | Year Posted 2014
|