Black Clouds are punching their way through the heavens,
They’re changing shape like blackened ravens.
The wind is tickling the bushes, but I see no laughter,
I hear no voices,
Just a rustle while the breeze teases the grass.
The greenery bends in respect of the wind.
The witch is cooking up a brew,
A brew of green running in soon to occur strands of stew,
The starting storm and the rain melts the grass,
The garden soon to be a sodden melee of muddy passion.
I see it only from my window,
I’m the widow of the garden,
Since the pollen blew.
(C) LIVVI