Storm Scene

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
Grasping lightning
Arced from the grey spleen of thunderheads.

I must steel myself
As I advance toward his
Mountain kingdom,
Staff in hand,
Striking the smooth pavement in
Regular tapping.
I keep time;
When the tapping slows, I quicken
Till it resumes its pace.

"What is your will, my hidden masters?"
I ask
As I plod headlong into the storm.
There is tumult in the clouds
And laughter in the winds.

George Chadderdon © 1998