This is no lady

(in the grip of a storm)

On a day that's dull and dreary,
it's the fury of a windstorm
as it bellows out its anger,
as it whistles through the branches,
as it sets the brushwood swaying,
there is wailing, there is creaking
as what's left of winter's weeping
is swept far with bristle brushes
across a moaning, groaning sky.

When you rise to see the twisting
of the trees with limbs all thrashing
as they suffer where they're rooted,
as hard rain pretends its grieving
and the storm has barely started
you anticipate the danger
from this callous, mindless stranger,
while you question all his motives
with a suggestion he departs.

Yet he tells me his instruction
is in havoc and destruction.
He's important so he's showing
in a pique of vengeful discord,
that his strength lies in the blowing
and like skittkes down an alley,
he'll be downing them with laughter
after ripping slates from roofing
because he doesn't have a heart.

Reviews

[Intothemilkyway]

This is very beautiful Anne. Loved the part where he says he is important while he is not. And also where he doesn't have a heart. This poems shows very well your thoughts on the person, but in a very hidden way.
Here we have the tree and the big storm.
But im glad to know that in a storm , maybe big like this one you can free yourself from this heartless person.

[Chris Shaw]

Dear intothemilkywsy. So interesting to read where my lines took you. Always great to get the perspective from readers. I appreciate you.

Chris