Storm: central France
Storm: central France
Yesterday, after eleven straight days of uninterrupted blistering heat, we had a storm. It felt exhilarating and I had to try and capture it - retreating with my notebook further and further under cover as it progressed.
After days of blue-skied sunshine
The dark rumbling clouds
Take us by surprise,
Creeping across the sky sneakily
One by one, until
They fill the sky from all compass points.
Half an hour ago,
Forced inside for liquid,
Sweat dripping from my forehead,
I'd lingered in the shade.
Now the dark clouds blanket the sun,
The garden prematurely dark,
And evening-cool.
As the temperature drops
A brisk whispering lifts the leaves
Anticipating the low rumble
Echoing across the valley.
A brittle crackle like radio interference
Or a sparkling firework
An indication of distant lightening
Then thunderous booming again
From south to east
The clouds too thick to let the lightening through.
At first, in denial
Birds still sing, bees still buzz around the garden,
Then the first big splat of rain hits the trees
Faster, louder the rain comes
And every living thing retreats under shelter.
Raindrops like guineas polka dot the patio umbrella
Then hail stones, the size of marbles
Come hurtling down in painful diagonals
Ding-ing off metal chairs.
The rain comes in fast,
Vertical sheets flood the patio into a choppy pond,
Blocked gutters impromptu waterfalls
A moving screen of rain
Hides the garden from view.
Sheet lightening flashes at last
Its flash and answering thunder
Constant,
Continuous,
Impossible to count the beats between,
Impossible to tell how far away the storm centre.
I retreat inside,
The darkened house calling out for electric light
Which the storm has taken in its wake.
All living things hide
And hold their breath, their songs,
The storm the only sound.
A pale patch of cloud in the distance
Promises an end to the storm.
A flash, a beat of two
Before the thunder rolls
Then three, then four.
A breeze wafts in the doorway
Bringing a sharp smell of pine.
© Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Yesterday, after eleven straight days of uninterrupted blistering heat, we had a storm. It felt exhilarating and I had to try and capture it - retreating with my notebook further and further under cover as it progressed.
After days of blue-skied sunshine
The dark rumbling clouds
Take us by surprise,
Creeping across the sky sneakily
One by one, until
They fill the sky from all compass points.
Half an hour ago,
Forced inside for liquid,
Sweat dripping from my forehead,
I'd lingered in the shade.
Now the dark clouds blanket the sun,
The garden prematurely dark,
And evening-cool.
As the temperature drops
A brisk whispering lifts the leaves
Anticipating the low rumble
Echoing across the valley.
A brittle crackle like radio interference
Or a sparkling firework
An indication of distant lightening
Then thunderous booming again
From south to east
The clouds too thick to let the lightening through.
At first, in denial
Birds still sing, bees still buzz around the garden,
Then the first big splat of rain hits the trees
Faster, louder the rain comes
And every living thing retreats under shelter.
Raindrops like guineas polka dot the patio umbrella
Then hail stones, the size of marbles
Come hurtling down in painful diagonals
Ding-ing off metal chairs.
The rain comes in fast,
Vertical sheets flood the patio into a choppy pond,
Blocked gutters impromptu waterfalls
A moving screen of rain
Hides the garden from view.
Sheet lightening flashes at last
Its flash and answering thunder
Constant,
Continuous,
Impossible to count the beats between,
Impossible to tell how far away the storm centre.
I retreat inside,
The darkened house calling out for electric light
Which the storm has taken in its wake.
All living things hide
And hold their breath, their songs,
The storm the only sound.
A pale patch of cloud in the distance
Promises an end to the storm.
A flash, a beat of two
Before the thunder rolls
Then three, then four.
A breeze wafts in the doorway
Bringing a sharp smell of pine.
© Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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