POEM: Missionary Kid

Rhodesian rain stings the earth.
Early drops ricochet from panting ground
in puffs,
settling the dust,
splashing
as high as a little boy's knee--
if it rains hard.

Five is too young to send away!
Small legs,
quivering from
the schoolmaster's fanbelt,
can't come close to touching
where the alien sheets tuck in.

Your mind
has not had time to store
your mother's face in memory.
Tears blur
what won't come.

If I lean down and put
wet cheek to yours
and take you in my arms,
your tears may blind you to my face.
Perhaps you will not see
I'm just a substitute.

Now steady, drops no longer bounce
but burrow,
turning dust to mud.
Inside, on starved ground,
the rain still stings.

(Written 1990)