the freedom of storms

the storm
was nearing

gusts of singing wind
sounded
then softened
and silenced

while
higher up
the sky was a-scud
with the movement
of billows
and frowns

he removed all his clothes
except his red jockey underwear
and wandered outside
in the middle
of a still moment

he lay down on his back
in the centre
of a small patch
of lawn
and waited

there had been heat
this day
and the breeze
at first
was tepid and slow
barely enough
to ruffle

but a sharp lick
saw the goose-bumps rise

harbinger
of the cold front

the chill held him
to a shiver
but he almost leapt
into air
as a first
fat droplet
struck his chest

before an irregular pattering
caused a kind of prone
skeleton dance
where cold kissed warm

but finally
it was serious

rain falling steadily
wind crying a cold
fierce lament
and he
thoroughly soaked now
releasing his awareness
to rise up
into the weather

so constant
the deluge and the buffeting
he found it hard to breathe
as he was beaten
and beaten again
all over

he wanted to laugh
at the thoroughness
of his purging

but a small thing
inside
restrained him
with a whisper

you’re going to drown yourself
you bloody
bloody
fool

~

Poem #454 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

14 thoughts on “the freedom of storms

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