To wake in half-light
To the sound of growling thunder.
When the air tingles in anticipation
Of the deafening crack
That breaks the sky behind the cloud
And looses the fierce light of heaven,
Fiery lances slung in anger
Against the trembling petunias
In their neat raised beds.
And we, for all our smug smartness
Shift uneasily beneath our flimsy roofs
Listening with millennia of memory
To the rushing sound of the rain.

