Storm

Prose poem depicting mother nature at her best.

Rain, heavy, light, hard, soft, pouring it fell on a bitterly cold night in London. The wind, was wild, and brisk, cold and still somewhat peaceful. Like a bee was to honey, the wind was to the rain. One could not be without the other, a storm, of great proportion, tree's shaking in the wind, moving, stirring as if they were almost communicating. Shadows leaping across the fields, darkness shifting, moving and throwing shapes which fool the eye of a man as he passes. The storm chaotic, was still in order, everything, anything it did had purpose, meaning and soulfulness. Like a song to a songwriter, was the storm to the night and the chaos that it bought. The trees fell, crashing and shaking as they plummeted to the ground which would doom them. The wind, still relentless, still chaotic showed no mercy. For nature would do as it pleased.

Author's Note

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