What rumble grumbles thundering
beneath another boiling sky,
Which warns me, scorns me,
distant thorns flee: flashing light from clouds, and I…
Am harkening – darkening towers,
ivory-cast and sunlit spires lie!
Still distant, though these
trees are bending, rending, raising arms up high.
Green fingers flailing, leaves travailing,
one warm-gust, and the blues go grey;
Then silence…
And the wind dies:
Calm
I can feel you coming.
I can taste your spray.
There’s nothing better
than a thunderstorm;
I love them, and especially
the way your tempest touches,
And the way your thunder talks to me.
©14Sep10 @DracoTalpus
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