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There’s nothing like a rainy day
To chase a farmer’s blues away.
The grey clouds rolling from the east
Like rising foam of swirling yeast
From o’er the distant ocean fled,
To save the grain, to make the bread,
As over hills the sweeping clouds
Rise heavenward like lifted shrouds
And there’s no force that can enchain
Their precious store – so falls the rain.
The misty curtains moist and clean
Are drawn across a dusty scene
And falling down in silver sheets
The parched and grateful earth it meets.

Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2012

Photo copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2005