Thunderstorm

Dark clouds creeping 
slowly placing gnarled hands
around the throat of an innocent summer day
squeezing and holding tight 
until the life of blue and gold lies
...silently in a heap of a July afternoon
silence the birds and cover up the shades of blue
spread the clock of blackness and take hostage
the lovely lady who stoles across the landscape
throw down her roses and her breezes
strike her with the lightening and the thunder
as in the setting sun she weeps...
Copyright © | Year Posted 2010

Poem

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September 6, 2010 at 11:47 AM
errie! Valerie, I have these dark clouds creeping on me today. WOW! to the metaphor of hands around the throat of the innocent of summer. Maybe it is in the air, the only thing I am holding back the weeping wind. Maybe for another day when the gold and the birds change their symbols in my life. Enjoyed your poem*luv~SKAT
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