Poetry

I
 
On some clear days clouds gather dark,
bringing water showers
blotting out the sun, holding energy that spark
letting water sieve, pelt down on trees, bushes and flowers.
 
It wields the flail
of shattering lightning
lashing out with hail
destroying and smiting
 
and even a secret weapon belongs to it to yield
when sinister a tornado tunnels down
on town blocks, residential areas and any field
and with mighty strong winds things are blown
 
away, shattered into pieces and men run away in fright,
the clouds are dark as the night.
 
 
II
 
The clouds are dark as the night
shining through in open patches at places
and some are brighter and white
while lightning smashes down in blue-white blazes
 
as the sky opens it sluices
pouring down with wild bolts of blue-white thunder,
pouring down gathered juices
falling with creeping feelers, ready to plunder
 
splitting trees, setting the veldt alight
and man and beast is desolate
with some trying to flee in fright
struggling to survive, past fear, past hope, past hate
 
and hail and rain pelts down as if they want to kill,
there’s rain falling upon the hill.
 
 
 
III
 
There’s rain falling upon the hill
and maybe it will splatter down tomorrow
and the evening wind has got a chill,
as if it’s weeping with sorrow.
 
In my days of tender youth
I have seen the blue sky
while I lived under my mother’s roof
have felt the sun; have seen birds fly
 
and now I watch the sun setting,
and it seems like never ending rain
as if this endless whetting
will be back tomorrow again
 
and it streams down flower petals,
drops of rain sparkles like crystals.
 
 
IV
 
Drops of rain sparkles like crystals
before the rain begins again, splattering down
with the sun shining as if in nuptials
confetti from the sky is wetting every gown
 
and there’s chaos around me
with a accident in the traffic,
on the slippery street people hurry
with another car colliding on the slick
 
wet streaming road
shuddering from the impact
with a crunching note
and a driver is blaming it on a Godly act
 
there’s no such thing says cosmonauts that went pass the moon;
slowly moves the foggy breath of noon.
 
 
V
 
Slowly moves the foggy breath of noon
over the ice peaked hill
and the long shadows tell that it will be night soon
with the winter’s icy chill
 
creeping in and the day dying in darkness
arriving on the town totally soundless
with the sun not seen in weeks
and rain still sieving down in its eagerness
 
and suddenly outside lights flicker on
like beacons in a sea of rain and fog
and inside I live in a world of my own
and outside there’s the insistent croaking of a bullfrog
 
outside the light shimmer,
 at the end of this summer.
 
 
VI
 
At the end of this summer
when autumn start to set in
and the chilliness of winter begin,
I still feel like a newcomer
 
in a world displaying its glory and the former
heat of days is washed away by streams of rain falling
as it did when things were mellow in spring
and everywhere strings of gossamer
 
hangs shining on leaves, on branches and trees
but with time my body starts protesting
displaying the signs of age, somewhat morbid like the sky,
the rotting leaves in the woods smell like lees,
the feats of when I was young are not inviting;
nothing outside is dry.
 
 
VII
 
Nothing outside is dry,
as if the soaking wet is creeping in to the entire
wide world and I have time to admire
your paintings, until late, to lie.
 
This is the time when you and I
cuddle together around a hot blazing fire
while the trees, plants and grass expire,
rain sieves down from a cloudy Cape sky,
 
where I lie in your embrace
with kisses raining down
and outside some dogs bark,
I am watching your eyes, your face,
while you are chasing away every frown;
on some clear days clouds gather dark.