Storm

Look to the skies,
So like a drink of gin.
Bringing forth a haziness,
With storm clouds coming in.

Dark forms reaching,
In a layered mass.
Pressed against the horizon,
Like fumes of colored gas.

A scene...of great iron-gates,
Where distant thunder grew.
And the closing-in of battlements,
That were forever passing through.

And vapors move to rain,
That make magical every thing.
And currents high above,
Come down on silver wings.

And storm...long delayed,
Moves like a clown.
Maneuvering on sky-valves,
And quickly coming down.


E.P. 1908 - 1989