Stormfall

(Storms never cease to amaze).


The storm leaves much more quickly than it arrives.
In the distance, invisible behind our false horizon
it was announced, as if not to cause surprise
a low, throat-clearing grumble.
Bruised copper clouds spread like creased bed linen,
smoothed by an untrained hand,
no lightning, just a discordant moan
then the pregnant pause, silence,
before the mother of all raging explosions.
The interval always catches us out
and we cower briefly before straightening up,
a nervous giggle or smile hides our shame,
another crash louder than the last.
Good god
we whisper as unbelievers
but there is no more
and the snare drum tension
is replaced by a fresher tang,
a gift left, to remind us of our place.
Someone, somewhere will have died
but not here, not today, so
we pick up pots, sweep steps, wring out our ears,
the storm has left more quickly than it arrived
and we are thankful.




© Graham Sherwood 04/2015