A brooding sky promises
to deliver a dramatic storm.
No longer strewn with icy stars,
dawn shows a taste of what is to come.
Against a backdrop of purple and flame
a greedy wind whips up squalls,
kneads trees into tortured shapes,
trunks bending at a tangent.
Every flag points Northeast,
flicking and flapping to shreds.
The creek, swollen by weeks of rain
threatens to invade the pastoral peace.
Atlantic lows, as low can be
send too much weather
for comfort and safety -
the people cringe and pray for Spring.
for the Sunday Whirl