Storm Chariot Poem by james watkin

A change is predicted.
What is promised me
Through what tingles, besides
For static in air
A charioteer's offer
Storm-wheeled, to enter.

I am low; he knows it.
To life, numb resigned.
What, in looking ahead
Is past enduring.
Of a great jolt or two
Needful; fear-blazed through!

Spirit-rouser! Who'll not
Let those hours to drag!
Night's exciter! Above
All a street-spilt verve
Shouts down: 'no humour's loss
Griefs to winds who toss! '