In the mid summer sky weather’s
Weapons fight each other for
Supremacy. Clouds shout their names
As they rub together or feather each other’s
Feet, tricking tickled rain into the conversation.
Higher varieties bang the anvil tops of towers
Showering electric sparks across heaven’s work bench;
Hammering like Thursday’s namesake until all the Norman’s
Children are awake and damning his name.
Upon the ground puddles pile
Higher and become fiery as their surfaces
Are ripped by hail spat viciously from low
Floaters snuck up under cover, that, once bled
Dry, cry drizzle for another hour. People creep
Up half a street in little cotton T-shirts, as humidity
Keeps coats indoors, but once they’ve gone too far to safely
Turn around the worst of water’s benefits assails, and drenched
And wet necked they seek any shelter as it pelts down.
But between the seams of swollen,
Folded comas, sunlight, that only last
Week seared sight, tries to squeeze an
Eyelash full of wonder through, cindering each
Solid edge and wedging more combustion as it swells.
Eventually a magnifying glass’s hole is stretched to let
An aureate splash scatter cotton bulbs apart and startle
Thunder’s water colours with the richest oils, and thickest brush
Strokes, spoiling winter’s little summertime incursion.