Violet-gray, the skies are, today,
And the droplets pour around;
No longer May, but June, all the way,
And the roses gently drowned.
A thunderclap; a lightning flash,
the rumble moves the earth;
The flooding smash of puddles splash,
as water rills in mirth.
The broken boughs, from wind that howls,
in quite-loud cacophony,
bow and swing, as room allows,
from the trunk of a nearby tree.
The rivulets run, in buoyant fun,
down every street and lane;
It won’t be done, even after the sun
has made the weather sane;
For Earth’s thirst is quenched – in fact, it’s drenched
her cup is overflowing;
the gardens are wrenched and the houses, entrenched,
and travel’s dependent on rowing.
But for now, the frogs, and the pollywogs
are having a lovely day;
even though the dogs – maybe even the gods –
are cowering where they may…
© Amarine Rose Ravenwood, 2020