Storm

 

The god of rage snatches at cringing shrubs,

Tears branches from the tortured moaning trees

And hurls the shattered fragments to the ground,

While far above, the brooding thunderclouds

Dance in exultant triumph as they flash

Their silver swords across the stage of heaven.

 

The white-limbed silver birches weep like brides

Tossing their shimmering tresses in the wind,

Lovesick and pale beside the aggressive trunks

And knotted maleness of the creaking oaks

Which in primaeval passion jab and stab

Their bony fingers at the livid sky.

 

Bundles of holly leaves and fat brown twigs

Career down swollen streams, which jam them tight

At every bend and jut of rocky stones,

Forming impromptu dams which barely check

The torrent's headlong surge towards the sea

To merge with waves as wild as souls from Hell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©1998 Barbara Godfrey & Black Cat Communications
All rights reserved