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.
AW
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