The restless, storm-tossed night was long,
dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,
a ship moored in a sea-rocked berth.
No stars, a heavy quilt of cloud
pressed down, oppressed the swaying trees,
the restless storm-tossed night was long.
When rage along the river swept,
storm carried north across the hills,
dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,
a thrush, the first bird, broke the calm,
a rush of song sailed through the dawn,
a ship rocked in a sheltered berth.
World is water falling splashing
lashing with steel whips
(drips) bough and stalk
the clouds cold wrath
frothing in over-spilling streams
battleship grey they throng
songs of thunder in their hearts
(starts the drum roll)
From over-spilling eyes
skies pour an ocean to float the blue-buoyed earth
birds trill and sing
fling all their hearts in open-beaked song
as long as there is a pulse to thrill the blood.
dim grey-green light
through water-grey blur
and the crooning of blackbirds
soothing the tedious drip
of broken guttering
by the pool of rainwater
murky brown with mud
a fire salamander gleams
exotic rainforest sprite
sharing the deluge with toads
awash the grass
the lane aflood
and hares race
oblivious to the downpour
the water veil of fading light
Listening to the drip drip of rain on the migraine
and feeling the earth soak beneath boots, sinking
unstable and the air full of shimmering, I walk
beneath dripping trees, where birds watch for worms,
and the background noise shrinks to the song of
nightingales, tirelessly ignoring storm and downpour.
I walk a path between grasses shoulder high, bowed
by lead crystal drops, and the clamour soothes,
cooling the blood with rain drip dripping
from the pigeon-grey eaves of the sky.
When the promised storm passes
on dark cloud wings,
and the sun sets in fire
on the meadow grasses,
and the soughing of the trees becomes a sigh,
you and I at the window listen,
waves of song in dusk-light glisten—
dauntless nightingales are singing
to the restless air.
The endless song in moonlight winging
from the hedgerow, soaring higher,
nothing in the night has ever seemed so fair.
We close the window shutters to keep out the rain that lashes the panes and runs behind the frames, pooling on the floor. We lay a rudimentary barrage across the porch where the torrent, running down from the fields, following the driveway, joins the cascade pouring off the roof and edges up towards the door. Ditches and pathways are raging watercourses, turning the bottoms into a grassy lake. If the stream bursts its banks and joins the lake, the water will reach half way up the hill.
We do what we can to keep out the water, but we cannot keep out the roaring voice in the chimney. Listen, it says, to what I can do, and remember Ozymandias.
soft sunlight was
where rain beats—dandelion
The gale brought the dead tree down
where the woodpecker lived
and the dark has come
without the beat of wings
and the cry of someone coming home
Cloud piled on cloud
compressing the breathless air below
pressing the sun
below the horizon
waiting for the moon
in gaudy pinks.
I came across this painting on Wikimedia , Storm on the Great Hortobágy, and found it fascinating. The white long horn cattle, the shaggy Hungarian sheep dog, the great river plain, and…. the sailing ship.
white speckled with cattle
and the river rolls.
Long horns watch the painter
herd dogs bark
through their corkscrew curls.
Broad plain speckled with white
and the sky thronged with grey
Herd dogs bark
long horns raise their heads.
blue sky in the river,
white horns listening and in the distance
Herdsmen shatter the placid plain silence
with barked orders
corkscrew curls bounce
dogs weave in and out of white legs
and white specks of cattle
roll into one single movement
and white light ricocheting
across the placid river plain.
and the plain sails on forever.
rolls on drunken waves
from sky to sky
and calls down boiling storm clouds
to drown my tears
in rivers of rain.
Voices in the fog,
ghosts of you and me.
I can almost remember
what we used to say,
but not how it felt.
It was the last time that we spoke,
and the words bounced back and forth
never taking hold.
I wish I could take those words
and twist them into the shape
of a bird or a rose
and give them to you again.
Take a song and sing it soft
to calm a stormy sea,
spread your crow black wings and let
the wind blow you safe back to me.
Beyond the humdrum
and the dismal damp
of November light,
sinking into obscurity,
the turquoise and fuchsia
and the flame red
of summer evenings
still sing to conjure up the moon,
and we will walk there
hand in hand beneath the stars.