A cycle of storms

entry picture

What are these skies that capture clouds?

and stall them still.

Billowing yet un-drifting, 

like great armies mustering,

that hang too long,

un-parted, fear filled.

 

That turn to grey from white.

 

Like the weight of untold history

waiting for its capsule to split,

to rain truth on the present,

setting us free. 

 

A cumulus of collected deceit.

 

This Island,

the collector of future storms.

Each of us sensing barometrical change,

each awaiting a refreshing drench.

 

After the storm

comes peace,

clear skies

beckon new cloud.

 

Lies gather.

 

 

◄ A Crucifixion in Parliament Square

Whisky Glass ►

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