The Brewing (Poetry)

All is quiet, the wind's a lonely whisperer
spreading idle rumours, tree to tree,
unsettling the air with vague obscenities,
propagating a profound unease.

Shadow-wrapped, defenceless hills stand listening,
a band of darkness creeping at their back
and rising, edging over the horizon -
Zulu clouds roll onwards to attack.

Air grows thick, disturbed, the land is shuddering,
a rumble like an army's stomping feet
echoes round, spears flash their jags of lightning,
pierce the sky and rip its heavy sheet.

Murmurs on the breeze become a bellowing -
old gods of war are riding on the storm,
powerful, their cohorts massed and threatening,
pressing for the charge, they seethe and swarm.

Tension brews, its undercurrents strengthening
while branches thrash, await the gush and roar
of missiles hurling down - the rain's cruel battery
as blindly made as any act of war.