Thunder the skies drum to rumble and many ears blind to the coming storm, yet calling some home to wrap themselves under both cloak and shield. Come the mists that deaden sight but for those with the spears driven to pierce.
We cast to birch, cleave to stones rising grey in undergrowth. Her rasp cuts the winds as she calls forth. Children! Children, come in!
Let the hunters flail; they are not our kin. Let them blindstep the pathways, missing us, their quarry, just beyond the thin.
9 responses to “Thunder coming”
Fabulous poem, Michael. I long to hear that rumble!
It was one of the things I really missed while I was living in Seattle. ⛈️
With the monsoon season MIA, I am miss it too. 😞
I hope you folks get some respite soon 💙
Would be nice. 🤞🏻 Thank you Michael. Just caught my typo. Or added word. 🙄😄 Best to you! 💛
This was quite wonderful.
Thanks again. Trying to capture the sense of dream.
Only the storm can wash us clean.
Fine piece, Michael.
Thank you Chris. It might have to be a particularly strong storm this time around.