No Thunder Yet
No thunder yet, best be wary though, could be soon,
weather men warn.
Later, clouds lower, bulge, darken,
turn black, dark blue, swollen
with trapped tempests.
Bomber plane bold, they frighten, threaten.
Like tables for a banquet set
spread summer gardens,
defiantly green, yellow.
Birds, butterflies, moths and bees,
the invited guests,
observed by magpie servants in the trees.
For now, storms stay south,
but lightning could come,
to flash on roofs, crack horizons.
If I live that long,
maybe I will have my moment,
like King Lear on the heath,
find words to have my say,
my silent soul will speak,
prove that I see clearly through poverty and pomp.
What I learned of life’s unfairness I would condemn,
its brief beauty praise.