( / Hull, East Yorkshire, England)

An Africa Thunderstorm

From the west
Clouds come hurrying with the wind
Turning sharply
Here and there
Like a plague of locusts
Whirling,
Tossing up things on its tail
Like a madman chasing nothing.

Pregnant clouds
Ride stately on its back,
Gathering to perch on hills
Like sinister dark wings;
The wind whistles by
And trees bend to let it pass.

In the village
Screams of delighted children,
Toss and turn
In the din of the whirling wind,
Women,
Babies clinging on their backs
Dart about
In and out
Madly;
The wind whistles by
Whilst trees bend to let it pass.

Clothes wave like tattered flags
Flying off
To expose dangling breasts
As jagged blinding flashes
Rumble, tremble and crack
Amidst the smell of fired smoke
And the pelting march of the storm.

User Rating: 2,2 / 5 ( 3 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

A nice poem with a message!
Realism in its glamour. You must have liked my poem 'Smokers'! Susie.
Like Ulrike, thank you for writing it and reminding us all what it's like to be addicted to the weed. Alas, I am not quite there yet in the battle to quit, sad as it is...
thanks for that poem and for really understanding how a smoker feels! ulrike
A good giggle Peter and thankfully I was never that addicted....coffee, on the other hand...: -)
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