Past the flames, orange and stilted;
and the moon's light floods the lonely fields.
Something stirs in midnight's silence.
The wind howls and echoes by.
Sweeping the fields and turning grass;
breaking the necks of its bloodied roses.
The naked arms of the birch trees rustle
as the rain lashes and glistens below
until a flash of thunder; silver-white
burns the sky and lights the green.
The emerald shines and its knife blades thrash.
The glass rattles and the fire flickers.
Ell Ell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-storm-140/
