Storm

Mid-morning light cuts its swathe through
the majesty of the storm clouds
whose ink stain is sheared from their
skins by the bursting of the rays
of the cutting sunshine; yet still we
are in awe of the purity of blue beyond we see.
This is the colour of heaven? The swell of
the thronged voices of angels who sing as one
unified and glorious choir
made perfectly synaesthesic pastelline: way beyond shades of marine.
The juggernaut burden of the roaring behemoth;
rain, suspended, defying, rolling, threatening
to tip out cackling on weddings, ill-prepared walkers,
at the first sign of happiness.

Share on Facebook

Leave a Reply