The Storm

Autumn. Chill. A green and glistening field
The strangest fruits amidst the shoots that grows
Liberty of imagery to yield
A kaleidoscope of dreams in liquor flows

Closing eyes to stare into the light
Echoing the movements to and fro
In vivid vibrant colours burning bright
Geometric patterns pulse and glow

Diaphanous, the dandelion seeds
That blow across the cotton grass in breeze
Towering meadow flowers and roaming weeds
To wooded glades of gently swaying trees

The forest shifts its shapes as twilight falls
The wind distorts the trees. Their branches bow
Through rotting leaves the lice and spiders crawl
The tangled roots that twist through filth below

The tempest rages through the trees. The timber strewn and split
In shadows trolls and demons lurk their faces turned away
Their wizened hands on ironworks, they dig a stenching pit
On doubt and fear and phobia. Malevolent. They prey

Gormantong caves in jungle deep
A swarm of bats.
Demented. Shrill.
Walk the plank through sea of fetid cockroaches and rats.
Entrails hanging from the roof to collect the spit in stills.
Emaciated. Rabid.
Pick through carcasses from festering detritus.


Now clinging to the stern. Foetal. Tight
The sea a torrid swash of swirling white
When suddenly the storm doth take a flight
The sanctity of shoreline in the light