Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.
Windsurging down the cocoa-coloured seamsof summer-fallow, darting in aboutwhite hoofs and brown, snatching the sweaty capshielding red eyes.
Windfilling the dry mouth with bitter dustwhipping the shoulders worry-bowed too soon,soiling the water pail, and in grim prophecygreying the hair.
II.
The wheat in spring was like a giant's bolt of silkUnrolled over the earth.When the wind sprangIt rippled as if a great broad snakeMoved under the green sheetSeeking its outward way to light.In autumn it was an ocean of flecked goldSweet as a biscuit, breaking in crisp wavesThat never shattered, never blurred in foam.That was the last good year...
III.
The wheat was embroideringAll the spring morningFrail threads needled by sunshine like thin goldA man's heart could love his landSmoothly self-yielding,Its broad spread promising all his granaries might hold.A woman's eyes could kiss the soilFrom her kitchen window,Turning its black depths to unchipped cups -- a silk crepe dress --(Two-ninety-eight, Sale Catalogue)Pray sun's touch be gentleness,Not a hot hand scorching flesh it would caress.But sky like a new tin panHot from the ovenSeemed soldered to the earth by horizon of glare...
The third day he left the fields...
Heavy scraping footstepsSpoke before his words, 'Crops dried out .- everywhere -- '
IV.
They said, 'Sure, it'll rain next year!'When that was dry, 'Well, next year anyway.'Then, 'Next --'But still the metal hardness of the skySoftened only in mockery.When lightning slashed and twangedAnd thunder made the hot head surge with painNever a drop fell;Always hard yellow sun conquered the storm.So the soon sickly-familiar saying grew,(Watching the futile clouds sneak down the north)'Just empties goin' back!'(Cold laughter bending parched lips in a smileBleak eyes denied.)
V.
Horses were strong so strong men might love them,Sides groomed to copper burning the sun,Wind tangling wild manes, dust circling wild hoofs,Turn the colts loose! Watch the two-year-olds run!Then heart thrilled fast and the veins filled with gloryThe feel of hard leather a fortune more sweetThan a girl's silky lips. He was one with the thunder,The flying, the rhythm, of untamed, unshod feet!
But now --It makes a man white-sick to see them now,Dull -- heads sagging -- crowding to the trough --No more spirit than a barren cow.The well's pumped dry to wash poor fodder down,Straw and salt -- and endless salt and straw(Thank God the winter's mild so far)Dry Russian thistle crackling in the jaw --The old mare found the thistle pile, ate till she bulged,Then, crazily, she wandered in the yard,Saw a water-drum, and staggering to its rimPlodded around it -- on and on in hardMadly relentless circle. Weaker .- stumbling --She fell quite suddenly, heaved once and lay.(Nellie the kid's pet's gone, boys.Hitch up the strongest team. Haul her away.Maybe we should have mortgaged all we hadThough it wasn't much, even in good years, and drawPloughs with a jolting tractor.Still -- you can't make gas of thistles or oat straw.)
VI.
Relief. 'God, we tried so hard to stand alone!'
Relief. 'Well, we can't let the kids go cold.' They trudge away to school swinging half-empty lard-pails to shiver in the schoolhouse (unpainted seven years), learning from a blue-lipped girl almost as starved as they.
Relief cars. 'Apples, they say, and clothes!' The folks in town get their pick first, Then their friends -- 'Eight miles for us to go so likely we won't get much --' 'Maybe we'll get the batteries charged up and have the radio to kind of brighten things --'
Insurgents march in Spain
Japs bomb Chinese
Airliner lost
'Maybe we're not as badly off as some --' 'Maybe there'll be a war and we'll get paid to fight --' 'Maybe --' 'See if Eddie Cantor's on to-night!'
VII.
People grew boredWell-fed in the east and westBy stale, drought-area tales,Bored by relief whinings,Preferred their own troubles.So those who still had stayedOn the scorched prairieFound even sympathySeeming to fail themLike their own rainfall.
'Well .- let's forget politics,Forget the wind, our enemy!Let's forget farming, boys,Let's put on a dance tonight!Mrs. Smith'll bring a cake,Mrs. Olsen coffee's swell!'
The small uneven schoolhouse floorScraped under big work-bootsCleaned for the evening's fun,Gasoline lamps whistled.One Hungarian boySnapped a shrill guitar,A Swede from out north of townSqueezed an accordion dry,And a Scotchwoman from OntarioMade the piano danceIn time to 'The Mocking Bird'And 'When I Grow too Old Dream',Only taking time offTo swing in a square-dance,Between ten and half-past three.
Yet in the morningAir peppered thick with dust,All the night's happinessSeemed far away, unrealLike a lying mirage,Or the icy-white glareOf the alkali slough.
VIII.
Presently the dark dust seemed to build a wallThat cut them off from east and west and north,Kindness and honesty, things they used to know,Seemed blown away and lostIn frantic soil.At last they thoughtEven God and Christ were hiddenBy the false clouds-- Dust-blinded to the staring parable,Each wind-splintered timber like a pain-bent Cross.Calloused, groping fingers, tremblingWith overwork and fear,Ceased trying to clutch at some faith in the dark,Thin, sick courage fainted, lacking hope.But tightened, tangled nerves scream to the brainIf there is no hope, give them forgetfulness!The cheap light of the beer-parlour grins out,Promising shoddy security for an hour.The Finn who makes bad liquor in his barnGrows fat on groaning emptiness of souls.
IX.
The sun goes down. Earth like a thick black coinLeans its round rim against the yellowed sky.The air cools. Kerosene lamps are filled and litIn dusty windows. Tired bodies crave to lieIn bed forever. Chores are done at last.
A thin horse neighs drearily. The chickens drowse,Replete with grasshoppers that have gnawed and scrapedShrivelled garden leaves. No sound from the gaunt cows.Poverty, hand in hand with fear, two greatShrill-jointed skeletons stride loudly outAcross the pitiful fields, none to oppose.Courage is roped with hunger, chained with doubt.Only against the yellow sky, a partOf the jetty silhouette of barn and houseTwo figures stand, heads close, arms locked,And suddenly some spirit seems to rouseAnd gleam, like a thin sword, tarnished, bent,But still shining in the spared beauty of moon,As his strained voice says to her, 'We're not licked yet!It must rain again .- it will! Maybe .- soon .- '
X.
Windin a lonely laughterless shrill gamewith broken wash-boiler, bucket withouta handle, Russian thistle, throwing upsections of soil.
God, will it never rain again? What aboutthose clouds out west? No, that's just dust, as thickand stifling now as winter underwear. No rain, no crop, no feed, no feed, no faith, onlywind.
