Storm by Willowdown and trinimade

 

 

When the storm comes on her liquid wings

she is breathless and expectant,

full of passion and promise,

restless for activity and release,

burdened with the tensions of her journey

over mountain and sea,

proud and furious,

playful and wild

– where is the suitor to woo

and win this turbulent bride?

 

Heaven help the groom who tries to tame her

Who can know what will bring her to her knees,

Maybe a wind with gusts to match her own

Or miles of open water ‘cross the seas

So that she can expend her strength at last;

Perhaps a heavy rain to quell her rage,

Even a mountain range to block her path.

There is no way that anyone can gauge

With any certainty where she will go

Or what she’ll do, she may decide to play

A game that will keep her suitors guessing;

But then again she might just choose to stay

In one place, for even storms must rest

Their weary heads upon a shoulder ere

They fizzle out and die an early death;

For storms also suffer from wear and tear.

 

Monsoon bells are ringing on high,

children are dancing in puddles

– in his multi-coloured celestial palace

the Prince of Rainbows is polishing his armour,

preparing for the wedding feast.

The thirsty earth drinks deep draughts of beautiful rain,

uncaring of the destruction wrought, not long since,

upon its tenderest plants and small shoots of grain,

luxuriating now in blissful coolness

after the worst of the energy’s spent;

flowers blow their clean-washed trumpets

forests sing like emerald harps

lazily plucked by dryads and zephrys

drunk on love and excess

– only sleeping dogs and tax-collectors are peeved:

there is no tax on heaven’s joy

and bank-managers sit morosely behind their desks

counting the profits they are not making.

Neither Storm nor her suitor know it yet

but the date has already been set,

the clocks set in motion by Heaven’s decree

– but the water-buffalo knows it

and permits the Rainbow Prince to ride upon his back

that he might enter the city in disguise,

mischief playing in his eyes…

before he spreads his radiant arch

across the wide sky’s azure pavilion

he’ll have some measure of fun himself,

visiting some pretty maids that he knows

along the ancient waterfront

and if he still has a moment of time

he’ll call in on a poet or two

down to their last can of soup

and searching for a missing rhyme,

or some delirious artist perhaps,

all but penniless and reduced to using

cheap wine for turpentine

as he celebrates promiscuous nature

with colour and passion,

his ardour unrationed,

his reason usurped by the mad, passing seasons

the call of Storm’s song

still strong on his senses,

the wild bird of beauty still riding the storm-front

above all borders, barriers and fences…

 

Willowdown and trinimade
2007

 

2 comments

  1. So good to read one of your collaborations.

    I especially like these lines:

    “Monsoon bells are ringing on high,
    children are dancing in puddles
    – in his multi-coloured celestial palace
    the Prince of Rainbows is polishing his armour,
    preparing for the wedding feast”

    Take care, Dear Maryse.

    Kerri

    Like

  2. Maryse,

    So very nice to see a Willow/trini collab

    …a most timely one. I love the personification.
    It works so well to convey the intensity.

    Some of my fav. lines are:

    “burdened with the tensions of her journey
    over mountain and sea,
    proud and furious,
    playful and wild”

    “Perhaps a heavy rain to quell her rage,
    Even a mountain range to block her path.”

    ” for even storms must rest
    Their weary heads upon a shoulder ”

    Every line contributes to the stormy atmosphere.

    Much enjoyed.

    Sarah

    Like

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