THE STORM The thunder overhead shook the slates on the ramshackle roof, rattled the windows in their rotted frames and drove the human hearers to a kneeling prayer. As well call a hunting lioness cuddly as call that thunder loud. It striped the eardrums with a cataclysmic detonation that unwound sanity and re-tied laces of the knowable in angry knots. And then the rain… hissing at first on the hot paving and bouncing in spattered fountains across the rock hard lawns, the dust masked drive, then changing gear and gushing like some gargoyle army on a battlement, the silver arrows of the hail a barbed accessory to walls of water falling like reprisals from the sheet-steel sky. And all around, the bruised and battered greenery gave up its scent combined with humus-fragrance from the soaking soil, till all one breathed was perfume of a heady ripeness, an entrancement for each mind. The thunder drummed again and built to a crescendo of percussion that semi-halted hearts of those below and stole their breath in horror at this mutant storm. The ceilings leaked a fatal drip-drip-dripping. Could the house stand firm against this mechanistic cataract from heaven? Somewhere in the spinning world new dawn had come; and people woke, and babies had been born, and life went on. We trust inherently the promise of returning sun.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Jul 2013 17:01:37 +0000
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