The Weather, the Times

The Colours of High Places

At first in small and then large

Thunder cracked the buzzing air, it was

Followed by a drowning silence.

Slowly, carefully, the rain

Leaked through the Crack in sky

Above the anxious congregation

Waiting for the Bride. Was the weather a

Warning?

But She came, still,

And we forgot the weather.

I, returning, considered the moody sky.

To the East, a crackling golden

Hue, nature’s first green.

To the North, foreboding blue, to South

A healthy pink, to West

Shades of dying grey.

And I ask, Why am I leaving

North? And to which direction

will you leave, Friend?