Thunder Morning
And so she arrives
in the first
of mornings,
the sky pressing
to the awaiting earth,
for in the birdsong,
the weaving choirs
of colors,
in the steels
slates
of silences,
in the memories
hidden,
in the shadows
and greens
of spring line birth,
For it is now
that the month,
of May is born,
Born in dreams
of yesterdays,
the bygone winter,
the promise
of April,
the racing clouds,
the blustery winds,
the heights
of darkening,
the shredded skies
split and torn.
As it is now
in the fading,
the shadows,
of midday blue,
the lengthening
hours
of coming
the promise
of springtime
and longer days
that summer,
in Thunder
is born anew.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
