Its been dry for far too long

The air's got parched and dusty

I'm praying hard for rain to fall

My life's been arid and musty

I see how you led me to love you

That easy flattery your smiles

I fell headlong into your arms

Tripped by those practised wiles

If only it would rain today

And wash away my tears

Is that thunder that I hear

Cleansing as it nears?

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If you could compare my soul to anything in nature

I’d say it‘s like a thunderstorm

people have mixed feelings about it

there are positive and negative feelings involved

some fear it for its destructive potential

some admire the lightning show

tension holds it together

that it’s trying to release

an inner state of unease

it’s contrary in all of its parts

the heat...

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Eye Of The Storm

The black clouds gather

Heavy rain drops splat

There is iron on your tongue

The bitter taste of storm

Head thick with thunder

White light splits the sky

The trailing crack rattles windows

A cat cowers beneath a bush

Shivering in its fear

The deluge follows

Straight javelins of rain

You lift your head back

As the heavens empty

Water fi...

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The Wake

The white ship slides serene, wind-blown,

heedless of its human burthen

while laying wakes but swiftly flown.

Mile-on-mile the dance of heathen

sunbursts play on flashing waters

pretty as maids, or bonds that weaken

as the leaving fades. The snows that fought us

in winters past, tall drifts in proud array,

melt clear in spring before our youngest daugh...

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I am a whisper rustling through the trees
I am the ripple of a pebble in a stream 
I am the ember of a funeral pyre
I am the guilt of forbidden desire
I am the rumble of distant thunder
I am the elusive winning number
I am the clown with a broken smile
I am the letter at the bottom of the pile
I am the words that will never be spoken
I am the promise that is sure to be broken
I am the wa...

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This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

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The rolling waves of thunder rumble through surrey’s silent hills

Like a ripple of a wave upon the sea’s shore

This deafening clap of anger tortures through dense air for thrills

But why? Can we be so sure?

Could this be a God who is fuming with mankind?

Or the Earth perhaps is signalling there is something on her mind.

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Into the Wilderness

Into the wilderness we went. Edhweirft and Hwyrflung swirled above us, blowing and bustling through the treetops. Watching. Threatening. But maintaining a safe distance as the trees protected us

Scrunch

Crack

Squelch

Scrunch

Crack 

Squelch

... we went, as the gloam drew in. Druuuuuin!! Closer. Druuuuuuuuiiiiinnnn!!!!! Closer. It hugs, this gloa...

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Away in the distance on a cold dreary night,

the horizon is lit by flickering lights.

Storm clouds as black as the darkest heart

and lightning tears the very air apart.

A grumbling mass of swirling bile,

the silence, the earth, the night to defile.

Like distant portents of desolate doom,

sorry shadows of a dusk too soon.

The dull silhouette of the thunderheads mas...

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baptised

the air is crackling
with anticipation
a gentle breeze
of humid ghosts
dances through
the open door

thunder rolls
and tumbles
like an epileptic
acrobat
across the muddy
thunderheads

a still foreboding
settles here amidst a
Tuesday clutter
of unfinished tasks
to watch the growling
climax of the sky

and when it comes
it splashes dark
from the bullet drop
that i...

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To allow the thunder to strike me

I must dismiss it

And retaliate

With silence not fear

Mustn’t let my ears fool my heart

Into fooling my head

I’ll let the vibration take me

For now

While the heat pushes the air

To my ears

From afar

Now that’s what I call Music

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Written on June 1st 2011 as an assignment based on the Calendar, set by John Cassidy for Bank Street Writers, Bolton.

O God of Sun, on Sunnandaeg,

I worship thee with spray -on bronze,

Because thy workload is quite big,

There’ll be a lot of wet week-ends.

God of the Moon, on Monandaeg,

I offer thee my hangover,

Last night I was a lunatic,

Oh I am deep...

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