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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