Storms Poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg

Lead grey skies enfold like shrouds
To clothe the rain lashed mountain peaks
Birds huddle down with open beaks
Protesting to encroaching clouds.


Few trees give shelter from the blast
Though gnarled and twisted limbs can grow
Where no green leaf would dare to show
Defiance, once short summer’s past.


A lone man walks the lonely fells
And gazes at the lake below
Where once he with his love did go
To laugh among bright heather bells.


Within his hands he holds his dreams
Contained within a silver urn
Soon scattered, for frail man must learn
That fate has her own plots and schemes.


Then, facing land so harsh and crude
Like life, that he no longer fears
He walks and sheds his angry tears
The storm an echo of his mood.