Storm

Storm

The storm comes at night
Breaking open the sky to
Pierce the earth with flashing shards
Of brilliant light.
Seconds of silence serve to amplify the
Inevitable crack and roar
As the thunder rolls in, over, around.
The colours exhilerate and fascinate,
Spellbind.
I hold my breath for the clatter of the rain
On glass,
In frenzied downpour - short, sharp
And sweet for the earth.
The storm relents, the rain eases,
The dying racket gives voice to
Incessant dripping and gurgling of gutters,
As Mars himself rolls off
To thrill another soul
And refresh some other corner of the land.

These words aren't mine

These words aren't mine


These words aren't mine;
They're yours and his, and hers and theirs;
Imbued with message, humour,
Thought and deed;
To chide, inform, amuse, provoke,
To damn and praise,
To sooth, support and heal.
Yet untold damage can be wrought
By thoughtless use of precious words
And unkind intent.
And wound unknowingly, or with kent,
The reader and the hearer;
Break the very soul of those who
Attend your borrowed lines,
So use with care those words that are not mine.