On the horizon,
the storm gathers
and waits for some poor soul
to wander far from home.
Then it rolls in,
slow and silent,
between us and the Sun
and cools our skin
with winds
from high up.
Rumbles come,
low and breaking.
Lit by light snapping,
cracking the sky
and blistering the air
with bolts of fire.
Enough energy to fuel
creation, or destruction.
The wise have long sought their hearths,
stoked their fires and drawn their loved ones close.
Doors shut and windows shuttered
against what may be “The Big One”.
The foolish play another few holes,
before seeking refuge under the trees;
many will pay for their disregard
of the will of the storm.
From the windows,
there are no breaks in the clouds.
The afternoon, now dark
is wrapped in varied shades of grey.
The lights flicker,
but the fire is lit.
The thunder rolls,
then shakes the foundations,
proclaiming its presence.
Hail destroys the flower beds
and enough of the wheat crop for worry,
yet we do not wonder,
nor do we weep.
We are supplicant
to the will of the storm.
HG – 2016
