Oh how it steals the sky


its furry wing.

First drop like a warning on the back of the hand.


Hunch-backed panickers under a canopy of cloth.

First flash slices like a warped guillotine,



then the rumbles of war-drums rolling,

Beating the rhythm of the cataclysm yet to come.

Watch how the hail sharp

as lightning

Comes thundering to the ground;

It stings on skins

and puddles in shoes

and nestles in hair

and escapes down the neck relentless, regardless.

It is upon us; waging battle upon an unprotected earth,

Stabbing down with crooked pitch forks,

Then the psychological warfare

of the crashing cymbals and the pounding of timpani:

The percussion of belligerency,

and they scream again.

Oh when will they learn that this kitten purrs for play,

Not growls for fear?

Just a bid for attention, that’s all,

But finding only turned backs

                                                                                It stalks away.

This is the end of playing war…

Over too soon?

Emma H, age approx. 16

An oldie to end the week! I wrote this poem in my mid-teens (I’d guess 15 or 16 years old) and I’m pretty pleased with the result even now. I love the atmosphere of thunderstorms – we’re talking tame British thunderstorms here – and I can’t understand why some people get so scared! The photo is from a storm about 3 years ago with some of the most dramatic cloud formations I have ever seen…


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