The power of the earth.
The wind howls mournfully underneath the panes. Rattling the putty in the ancient window frames. Prying through the lock like a thief in the night, scattering brown leaves like birds in upward flight.
Rumbling down the chimney and swirling in the grate. Always in a hurry, there is never time to wait. Knocking over bins, paper swirling in the air, while Mother sits quietly rocking in her chair.
Whispering round the trees of things we cannot see, whipping foamy pillars around ships far out at sea. The lights dip and flicker as it skims and skips the line and boats head in to port out of the frothy brine.
Groaning under sheds as if searching for a soul, the fire in the hearth glows redthrough earth black coal. Crying like a child and rumbling like a distant drum, not knowing where it's going or where it has come from.
Folk huddle round, listening to the ancient moan. The earth is calling to every hill and stone. The power is intense the energy is raw, we sit and wait and batten up the door.
And then it is gone as if it never came The sun shines brightly, the sky is blue again. The energy moves on, the earth has had it's say. And we are now just thankful for this shining bright new day. Jan Millward©