Here on this plane of black asphalt,
I straddle the line.
Brown, tussled grass walls me in,
Confining illusion which
Thirsts for the hammering of summer rain.
I keep to the path,
Listening for rumblings at my back,
Wary of the oncoming nemesis,
Chariot drawn by storm-tigers
Heralded by fingers of white
Arced from the grey spleen of thunderheads.
I must steel myself
As I advance toward his
Staff in hand,
Striking the smooth pavement in
I keep time;
When the tapping slows, I quicken
Till it resumes its pace.
"What is your will, my hidden masters?"
As I plod headlong into the storm.
There is tumult in the clouds
And laughter in the winds.
George Chadderdon © 1998