The Will of The Storm

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

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