The rain has no political views

The Rain Has No Political Views

The rain pelts down on the dusty Highveld,
Plumes of dust dispersing under heavy drops of liquid sunshine.
The golden grass hungrily reaches towards the leaden, rolling sky,
And rustles and sings with the wind.

Along the steaming tarmac, a barefoot man walks,
He guides his goats in the downpour,
Bleating in the direction of home.

A BMW glides past the man,
A box of naartjies in the boot,
Children’s fingers sticky with koeksister syrup.

Beneath the rain clichés converge,
As it trickles down the sashed windows of the wealthy,
The cat watching from the plush cushions,
The roses drinking deeply.

But the rain will fall on all;
Steaming tarmac and whistling grass,
White man in his silver car,
Black man and his goats.