Submerged before the surface breaks his fall;
a damselfly caught in the sudden rain.
The God of Storms has nothing but disdain
for insects, cricket matches, picnic sprawls,
and breaks them up. The raucous thunder brawls,
lightning and ruptured clouds. The batsman blames
his awful luck, the picnic couple drain
their wine and leave their sodden sandwich haul.
The God of Storms, well pleased, of course he is,
behind his beard a smile, the swaying sky
his hammock. Now the English summer's his
to keep. He dotes upon her, makes her sigh
and groan on boggy meadows, panting, wet,
the season's crops all rot in lovers' sweat.