Prodigal
How could we fail to embrace you? Yearning
so much, so long, for your presence, it was
your arid absence that became the norm,
though of course it isn’t, could never be.
To be truthful, you crept up last night with
that frisky, seductive tapping of yours,
leaves scraping the tin roof, but we’d been mocked
so often, we took little notice of it,
had frankly forgotten how to believe –
another cruel tease, no more, no less.
Yet this morning here you are barging up,
rough, wet, desperate, the whole sky in tow
and I’m sitting here, dry, dry, and laughing
aloud beneath your sacred drench of liquor.
The rain gods are singing at last. Where have
you been wasting yourself? Welcome home.
Originally from Liverpool, Harry Owen now lives in Grahamstown, South Africa. He is the author of seven poetry collections and editor of three anthologies, including For Rhino in a Shrinking World: an international anthology (2013).