Feeble Recreation of the Tempest

It is the sigh of the east wind – a prelude for what is to come.

My muscles tense at the thought of the coming tempest, and at the one passed. In the silence, the petrichor continues its echo in the cavernous corridors between the clouds. It harks and bids forth the hearts of men, the half-hearted thunder but an imitation of jest of the boots of men. For never could the legions of man or beast contest or best Mother Nature. She, herself, creates the mold for intimidation. How intrepid lightning should strike the Tree; a crackle and deafening roar we only hope to recreate with the striking of our swords, steel on steel, sparks in an infantile eruption, our voices mildly guttural with our battle cries. Our greatest guns and cannons do not create the clamor that a mighty, howling wind might, felling forests and great stone structures; spires that have seen centuries crashing to the ground.

And yet the murmur before the storm… Comforting as a mother’s whisper and a father’s cradling arms.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

The Essence of you

Inspire Innovate Improve.

I didn't have my glasses on....

A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

Daydreaming as a profession

Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.


Blossom. Re-blossom. Keep doing it.

Ramblings Of A Fragile Mind

"All my life's buried here, heap earth upon it"

%d bloggers like this: