There’s a fine mist
kissed by the snow on my head
while brain fried, cotton-wool dyed
birds fly high in the sky;
they screech through the leaves,
crash into branches of trees
and winter’s dry twigs
break as they shake to the ground.
Darkness descends from above,
and the air quivers… lightning shivers…
the birds calm down, they make no sound,
waiting… waiting… for the thunder
to rupture, to fracture, the peace.
©Denise G Allen, 20 October 2013 11:59