Under a canopy of deathly grey clouds
A little house sits obliviously.
The sky is dark, bleak,
The absence of its rich twilight tones glaringly obvious:
A forewarning.
Treetops wave,
Leaves rustling like ripples in the sea;
Swayed easily,
Carelessly,
By the hollow wind.
Silence prevails.
And suddenly,
For a moment,
A jagged streak of liquid white fire
Splits the heavens,
Illuminating the sky in one blinding burst.
Then a distant drumroll,
Promptly, as if on cue,
Releases a deep bass boom,
Resounding in the roar of a thousand tongues;
Even the air tingles
With a n t i c i p a t i o n
The little house shudders
On its foundations,
Waiting for the inevitable.
And at last,
The rain
Comes pelting
Down
Leslie Ching
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stormsong-2/
