The Storm

Sitting in the darkened room
By the open window,
Looking out on the night -
The inky-black night,
And listening to the wind
That whistles around the roof tops
And howls down the chimney
With noises like banshees.
The silence of the night is broken
By the buffeting of the storm;
The rain lashing down,
Forming rivers along the empty streets.
The sounds of water splashing through drain-covers
And off over-flowing gutters,
Carrying discarded sweet wrappers and fallen leaves
Like the spoils of war to its den.
The raindrops hammering against the window panes
Trying to come in - trying to escape the fury without..?
The thunder crashes loud then louder still,
Like giants moving furniture overhead.
The sky alight briefly with the forks of lightning,
Like long probing tongues across the horizon,
Then the sky darker than before -
The cycle repeated over and over and over...
At last, spent and exhausted,
The wind dies away
To the merest whisper
And the storm is done,
The thunder moved on
To rumble at some other place,
And the night is peaceful and still
Once more.