False Hope - June 12 2026

 

False Hope

June 12 2026



They predict rain

which never seems to come.

But on the far horizon, I see clouds,

scowling darkly

and heavy enough

to hug the sodden ground.

Yet there they remain

as if anchored by their weight.

Or could the wind have died,

the storm stranded in place

while we’re unaccountably spared?

Which would explain

the ominous stillness here.

Or is it all a play of light,

like a desert mirage 

seductively beckoning

a parched and desperate man?

An oracle 

foretells a future

we might dread or wish for;

we remember when she’s correct

but forget the string of misses.

A preacher rants and raves,

spraying spittle and shaking fists

while intermittently speaking in tongues.

He condemns the sinner

as well as the sin,

while praising the Creator

who speaks only through him;

a merciful God

who doesn’t always forgive.

He predicts the end of days

when the faithful will be saved,

but is vague enough

that day never comes.

She takes my hand,

turning it palm up

and holding it firmly in hers.

For a moment

she raises her eyes to mine

with a look of studied concern,

but then returns to her work;

tracing my lines

with a long thin finger

and red acrylic nail.

Her reading is propitious

but somehow sounds rehearsed;

nevertheless

I choose to believe

and leave reassured.

Of course, it’s all guesswork

isn’t it?

But call for rain long enough

and surely it will come

   . . . at least eventually. 

Just not soon enough

for the desiccated soil

that’s blowing in the wind,

the dry watering holes

where thirsty animals

whose ribs are showing

lie panting on their sides.

And not in time

for the parched man

crawling over burning sand,

filled with hope

in fortunes told  

  . . . and certain odds

           . . . and auguries that favour him.