My arm hairs lifting as the colours bleed.
Each pigment of the day is dulling down.
They sense the gods have sown the lightning seed.
Its silent circle swathes across the ground.
At first one drop of tired water strikes
and starts a drumbeat on the plastic roof
A caterwauled crescenco of the likes
of 20 thousand bison on the hoof.
Then all the air is sucked out in a flash
as every shadow disappears tout suite.
A choir conducted now with such panache
as Thor’s hammer and anvil strike the beat.
The echo of the thunder through my nerves
ensures I feel the awe, this storm deserves.
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