Storm

I hear it in the distance, before it arrives

A smooth sea roar of branches slicing air

Tearing the silence

And clattering the quiet candles of thought

Open air

An open place

Spirals of space

and straws

Through off set doors

tunnelling stairs

to see the ceiling

Face to golden face

Above the scenes

Where might concrete skeins

Flash shadows cross vertical channels

The sky, hanging in cultured libraries

of coppice

The Devils Kneading Trough

An inverted horizon

gathering in this ocean of land.

Streaks of green

Banners, like kelp on the tideline.

Luminous behind drifting islands of hail

Time streams

raining on this cleft of chalk

An invisible waterfall pouring into static turmoil