The storm

A narrow strip of pebbled beach.

Through the bush a house;

Timber-framed doors, glass panelled.

Now look back onto the river.

The angles of the shadows change.

Long at either end of the day

When the water glistens through the haze.

And storm clouds turn it to steel.

Storms that never come for weeks,

Till the day you can smell it.

The still river suddenly whipped up.

The bend of it obscured through the approaching rain.

One bank of clouds hovers in the east for hours.

Stagehands stand behind

Flashing torches quickly.

Flashing torches through giant card cut with a zig-zag.

Sometimes the card drops

And all of them shine a stark blue light onto the cloud.

And there for a moment

A strange, ghostly day.

An eerie quality of daylight

That paints the world in a strange black and white.

The decision to dream and live is made,

And not to just survive.

Copyright, Bryan R Ward 2006