Glastonbury Storm
Fog covered the Tor and instantly lifted.
Sodden towels dragged
on a washing line. A woman shook
her door curtain. Its strips bunched
like hair. A Tshirt hung
heavy on the waist of a barefoot girl who swung
a flip-flop in each hand. A pregnant woman protruded
from her kitchen, faced the vicious hail as it beat
even bleached jeans to darkness on thighs. A man in a dhoti jerked
back from wheel splash. Wind and thunder groaned
at each other. Our trees swayed.
On the Sweet Track huge elms stood
calm. Heat loosened
like teeth. The Levels were still.
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Categories: Making Sense
Such an air of foreboding in this poem…