Barking The Thunder Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Those things were once beautiful
When they were young and holding hands.
Now they are speared at the sides
And give little struggles
Though it is never in the direction
They once laid down towards.
And far, far above
The sun still burns, like a lantern
Keeping watch in the loft of a barn
Where a blonde angel sleeps out of the
Rain in the place where inhabited lovers once joined.
Here, her quiet light lingers
Wavering like incandescent waves
Of the desire now smoldering over muted
Flesh, the pearlescent avenues curious
Fingers strolled for hours upon
And lips pressed furtively searching for
A definite meaning. Now her sea-curved
Limbs only wear the bucolic lingerie of
Her surroundings, like a virginless grotto
Painted without meaning,
The landscape of a lonely plot.
Wings clipped and darkened,
She searches for a deity as chaos
Swirls blacker, barking the thunder.