a sonnet: the storm

The Storm

Pallid plains of serous skies,

An anaemic vault bereft of blush;

The tempest cries it’s sally sighs

That not a state of sun could hush.

Paroxysmal gales pestle fists blaest

‘Gainst rough stale ore and nodular crags.

With clout to disarm the most ample arbalest,

The whistling squall dances o’er bare stone-flags.

Echt English sheets of rainfall tyrannical

Throw rivers into a raging deluge;

The twisting tributary so irascible,

That no fauna in peril found refuge.

The storm enveloped all traces of life –

And left behind nought but ruin and strife.

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