THUNDERSTORM

 

Time stops in its tracks in a breathless hush, then the rising wind

whispers in the brushes of a snare drum and rustles in a violin.

Raindrops plink and patter, dancing on the xylophone.

A french horn seizes the frolicking wind and flings it to a wild trombone.

The big drum roars with thunder, that was growling in the double basses.

Then the wind breaks free and whistles in a flute and settles in the cor anglaises,

whose mournful sounds, like a dying swan draw from a cello a deeper moan

and sobs from the sympathetic rain, falling from the harp in showers and splashes.

Awash in grief, the wind lets loose a howl in the trumpets that would frighten Zeus,

and the cymbal crashes.

 

 

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