The Storm


A sneaky breeze, a thousand thieves
is creeping through the grass and trees
and tugging branches, rustling leaves.

Its fingers, cold against my face
as faster it begins to race
then dies away, without a trace.

I turn for home and head downhill,
the grass and leaves are now quite still
but memory has left its chill.

The wind returns with greater force
and buffets me with no remorse,
it tries to push me from my course.

It gusts from left and then from right
so wilful, agile, full of spite,
to keep my footing is a fight.

The gale is strong and seems to gain
in power as it drives the rain
into my face, a stinging pain.

As black clouds steal the sun away
the darkness grows replacing day
and crashing thunder joins the fray.

Now frozen in the lightning’s flare
the forest, wild as gypsy hair,
presents a scene of bleak despair.

Then all at once it seems to ease,
a stillness falls beneath the trees,
and watery sun tries to appease

by breaking through the passing cloud,
and lighting up a wood now cowed,
whose silence seems to shout out loud.

© Roger Dorey

Photo by Peter G. Trimming, CC-BY-2.0