Painting Storms (Poetry)

Bloated clouds are swelling the horizon,
purple bellies bulging in the hush,
while patient hills stand by to catch the downpour,
the air disturbed by sudden, restless gusts.

As minutes stretch, the pregnant silence lengthens,
birds are dumb, the very earth seems mute,
the sky begins its labour, heaves and rumbles,
the tension in the atmosphere’s acute.

The gaps are timed, the miles between diminish
until both clap and flash are synchronised,
gestation done, a spasm rips the cover
and, with a howl, rain plummets from the skies.

The canvas is awash with running pigments —
streaked and smudged — diluted in the flood,
the sky a fading stain, the forest fluid,
trees and hillside merging into mud.

The mess reflects the chaos of the moment —
the violence and raw energy of storms —
that chemistry and awesome sense of drama
captured as the landscape is reborn.