ατελείωτος (Endless)

Even the eldest do not remember the origin

of the Ritual of the Tempest. The ancient dowser,

worn smooth by so many generations of hands, is

greasy to the touch. The Ritual is so much a part

of the community that playing Tempest

has become as common a child’s game

as mumblety-peg or steal-the-radish.

Yet none alive have ever seen a tempest

appear. A drizzle, now and then, and one

year a snowfall. Thunder in the distance

but never lightning. Every summer

the elders grip the staff, open the book

none have ever been able to read, begin

the three-day song. Someday

the lightning will strike.

 

by

Robert Beveridge