Plum Rain Cease Fire

The Han River’s muddy water,

 turns cobalt blue,

Days after the deluge, 

before the plum rain regroups.

Tall grass stalks flattened by the overflow,

Standing like crossbows,

 arch skyward in the sunlight,

Green with life, 

recovering from the strife.

All along the river floor,
scorched earth,

 brown and matted.

Drenched in mountain runoff

 coursing from the source.

A scouting egret,

 assessing survival,

 scours the shores.

Fish swiftly in rapids, 

over falls to Taiwan Strait.

Turtles seeking breathers,

 round boulders lost,

As machine men mad with motors,

 march at any cost,

On the one-way, each way,

 winding high road dykes.

The pause in the downpour,

 means recuperation no more,

but a chance to get on with, 

their damn vacation?

And the merchants,

 blessed with collateral,
damaged,

busy their vocation.

Who’s there to feel 

the pain when nature mourns?

How does it feel 

when nothing can go wrong?

When no one overseas oversees,

or picks up the pieces of driftwood?

A near folly* of firewood in the rain.

Left like a singer in a storm.

May 26, 2019
*Dedicated to Holly Near" 
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               Copyright © 2019 by David Barry Temple. All rights reserved