Triple Despair - Response To Beth St. Clair Summer Storm Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Despair is rarely Nature's wherewithal,
Enchantment men may glean from verdant scene
Seems out of court as Time's balls fall between
Perpetual service netting all in all.
Air rushes, crushes, hushes, leaves tall small
Descends upon the many might-have-been
Expectant offshoots, offspring, wailing keen
Sideshow of evolution's churning call.
Palm snaps in gale, frail fails once mighty oak,
As topsy-turvy turn pride's landmarks lost
In seconds with no time to count the cost,
Refused appeal when court's caught stony broke.
Despite storm tempest life still finds its way
Advances Into Realms for future play.

Oh, night descends and darkness fills the sky,
the north wind blows a cheerless, haunting dirge,
and all is cold and harsh upon the eye,
until the sky and landscape seem to merge.
A melancholy storm is rolling in,
beneath this heavy sky of sombre hue,
where thunder speaks in an unearthly din
and clouds obscure the moonlight from our view.
The wind is rushing through the distant trees,
a language that is cumbersome and sad,
it whispers dark and hunted in the leas,
as if the trees were growing strangely mad.
A madness that crescendos in the air,
as nature shows her strength and her despair.

(14 July 2009)