Bernard Waters Poems >>
The Storm

THE air is thick, unclean and warm
And filled with mutterings of a storm ;
Spidery Fear a web he weaves
And silent are the leaves ;
The angry sun sinks down in flame,
As though to leave the earth in shame ;
Not darkness, but a cloak of green ;
Across the sky strange lights are seen,

Quiv'ring, shiv'ring
In the distance far,
Burning, glowing
Not as a star
But as a fierce unbridled fire
With unwholesome thin desire ;
The furtive clouds slink past
As though they hate the whirling blast.
Like ships upon a gurly sea
Which from coming horrors flee,
A sudden wind, a blinding light
Of myriad shades 'twixt black and white,
Shatters the equipoise ;
Racking lights and black noise,
As if the hells of mental sin
Have upgathered in the din ;
The parched earth, all athirst.
The trembling trees all accurst ;

The panting grass cries out in pain
And craves the blessedness of rain ;
It seems as though all mortal shame
Has taken form in sound and flame,
And filth, baseness, vicious thought
And every secret sin that's wrought,
Man's habits uncontrolled, his lust.
His soul choked up with passion's rust.
All, All, upsprung to flame form
And leap within the storm ;
Earth atwist with violent pain
And razor light cuts in twain

The moaning sky ;
Like the thudding of a flood
Pent up, the surging blood
Beats against the shiv'ring brain,
Swells up and up and up and bursts in
Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain,
Rain, Rain, Rain.