The counter tempest, cold and raw, was birthed from a flock of titan doves, from once shattered warrior wings, from fracture-fused skeletons. Bravest might, courage unbowed, they launched into that Camelot night, that legendary night. As a morphing constellation, as stars that rose in rows, they flew in stolid waves. From their eyes lightning came. From their blessed avian hearts thunder rolled. 'Twas a storm brought by such angel hearts against the demon horde. Wind howled. Rain lashed. The sea all but boiled. What the cruel had broken, the good would fix and mend.

December 1, 2025.

 

The old church donned a dark cloud halo, one that swirled thick and fast. ‘Twas as dark as mountain rock. ‘Twas as turbid as fields mid-flood. To the rustle of fervent trees came no nightingale song. To the echoes of thunder’s roll came no owlish hoot. ‘Twas as if the words of nearby pages had bled from white leaves to dovish clouds and turned them to an oil slick scowl. The air took the aroma of the land, licking all with fall’s chill. Eerie. Eerie. So Halloweeny. As if the gargoyles dreamed it so.

October 27, 2025.

 

A grief of clouds hung, draining light to meanest gloom. Rain, thick and fast, pelted in ugly mood. The lament of forest creatures it did drown to less than a garbled and strangled weep. Its hammering was a distress to leaves, a burden to trees, and an onslaught of undeserved bitter pummel. Cold. So cold. Even the air did shiver. Scents abandoned the air as fox from hounds, finding the warmer hug of deep underground. Still it trickled in. Still it leaked. Woe! Woe! Such torrent! Such unforgiving batterings!

April 11, 2025.

 

Summer shivered beneath a storm, an errant storm, lost from winter’s flock. The land no longer was light-bathed, yet had to content itself with mean withering shafts. Perhaps the optimistic eye would see them as balustrades, a heavenly staircase beamed into warmer days. Yet goosebumps don’t lie. Birdsong was mute. Thunder defacto-deafened even the most open ear. Every bright hue washed dim. Every smile fell flat. It wasn’t supposed to be here, but it was, and that was that. Shutters closed. Doors met their catch, bolts and chains too. One cannot churlishly tell the sky to recheck the calendar. It does not know. It does not care. And, so we too took cover, what else was there to do?

May 2, 2025.

 

A fist of wind pounded darkness’s aeons forgotten name, the one that seeped from synapses as easily as fish-netted rain. Slates cracked. Chimney stacks fell. Doors from aging hinges blew. Windows smashed to shattered shards, sharp edge-glint silenced, aghast. For the darkness was a storm older than the eye of great Jupiter, with power enough to block the sun, to fell grand oaks and make bravest hearts run. It chilled every spine to brittle ice. It cleaved each soul in one foul slice. Darkness then demanded, “Are all the hero’s done? At long last, have I won?”

September 3, 2025.

 

Morose clumps of oily-cloud slicked the sky in oppressive growl. Thunder cared not for meekness. Lightning cared not for calm. And, the rain! Oh, the rain! It fell as icy arrows to marrow and soul. Strike! Strike! On and on it slew. Never a pause. Never a respite. Never a gap for sun-rays to thread through. Wind thought not to lessen. Ground thought not to smooth afoot. No! No! On and on it slew as if to let up was to lose.

April 11, 2025.

 

The sky was a blush of smudged grey, as if a new future had been drawn in pencil and then softened by a giant’s hand. From the distance came a slow and low rumble and the air was water-heavy and thick. The wind that had barely been enough to ruffle a flag, was now keen enough to rip clothing from a line. Olive stood, her hair tousled into an almost tornado spin, this storm was going to be etched in their memories long after it had passed.

November 12, 2024.

 

Through a frame of verdant foliage came a fork of white-blue lightning. The midday sun had been silenced to an almost twilight grey. The rain beat down in such drumming waves that the tree canopy could have been simple bare winter branches. The air that had been heady with floral scent an hour ago had become a cold scream over the skin, raising goosebumps and billowing the clothes. Until they reached the comfort of home, there would be no shelter from this sky-born rage.

November 12, 2024.

 

In the car headlamps the blizzard became a chaotic constellation. Through the all-squared forest of high-rises, along the wide avenues, the wind sang winter’s song. The air had grown teeth that day and nibbled those brave enough to venture the streets. Perhaps on summer days this place is heady with the aroma of street food, yet now it is only the mixture of ice and gasoline. Ted re-wrapped his scarf around his neck, tugged his hat to almost cover his eyes, and trudged toward the cafe.

November 12, 2024.

 

The rain ceased as if it had an “off button” pressed by an unseen hand. Light came in as party streamers, reminding the forest below that it was still the middle of a spring-day. Though the birds had sheltered under wing and branch as the torrents fell, the rivers and lakes were glad to take their fill. Then, as streams and waterfalls chattered on, upon earthen tones made richer from this soaking, our heroes began to sing once more and let the beams warm their hearts.

November 12, 2024.

 

In that storm she stood tall as the rain washed clean off her and onto the blacktop street. As all others ran for shelter, she welcomed the rumble of skies as an old friend, her hands upon her head as if she were bathed in a powerful hymn, as if it all were no more than a rock-n-roll cathedral. Then, slowly at first she turned around and around, until finally she danced as if in a broadway musical.

October 11, 2024.

 

To the sun-bleached grey, upon the industrial hour, came the lazy thunder. Feet dragged. Hard soles clomped. Faces were as grim as the obsidian sky. Soon the rumbles below were met by rumbles above and the first bolt cleaved the heavens. The soaking came not drop by drop, yet as a New Year’s plunge.

October 11, 2024.

 

Condensing water in leisure drips as stormy arrows strike my pane; and all the while I hear the howl that bays for me to stay within, to ignore those at whim of such malicious archers.

February 19, 2023.

 

Storms came to quench the earth that communed with the beech tree roots, the soil that held blessed water until it could be given to its sweet leaves, each of them shaped as a raindrop heaven-bound.

May 11, 2020.

 

The clouds that gather, a silver-fade, from the strongest of grey to soft whites, have command of the skies today. Yet what they promise is life-giving rain for the parched soil and a chance for new seeds to grow.

May 5, 2020.

 

After every storm comes the sort of sunshine that goes all the way to the soul, the sort that makes one glow a little brighter within. This storm was just the same, the strong gusts and the kind of rain that danced in the streets, yet after it was so glorious, it brought the most honest of smiles.

July 30, 2019.

 

The storm left everything strong standing, the upward branches and the roofs that kept us dry. It came to wash everything anew and show us what was rotten, where repairs and nurturing work were needed. It was the boldest storm anyone can recall, the rain determined in a wind that moved as a well run locomotive. We can all pray for the fine weather, but it takes the best of us to welcome the storm and show others how to thrive once it passes.

July 30, 2019.

 

The silver hues were as molten silver, swirling in steady and radiating ripples. I love the sky before a storm; I love the greys of every shade and depth. I could swim in the atmosphere so subtly electric, alive with an excitement for what is to come.

July 30, 2019.

 

Mist the target in thickest fog, rock the branches in Storm’s howl and yet my arrow stays true to heart, for I am the huntress of legend. I bring the end to days of ledger, an end to owing and owed, an end to bowing and bowed. I send word from the world beyond, I deliver the letter that brings real truth, that which renders equality both easy and obvious to all. And when the parchment touches skin, when it is absorbed into the blood, when the vision clears, you will see as I do, for there is no mist for me; neither is there wind, for this miss there is but victory.

April 27, 2021.

 

The Compass and Clock Storm
 

Bubbles rise to storm pellet's pound,
All around the swamp festers,
Be it slurry ankle deep,
Be it the foulness of rotting fish,
Be it the howl that steels the merest hint of heat,
Escape,
Escape,
Up,
Up,
Climb to the mountain peak,
Enter the calm,
Let the clouds be your rolling fields,
For this rage of skies,
Stretches around compass and clock.

January 15, 2023.

 

To the blackness came an electric flock, bolting from graphite-cloud to wind-whipped loch. Within that cradle of mountains, in that valley snug, we could only but imagine the force upon each jagged peak. For the lake splashed as if it were gravel that, from the heavens, fell. So heavy were those drops that on winter's hand befell.

October 13, 2024.

 

The storms took Earth into an onward night, regardless of neither time nor sun, yet came the booming exclamations of heaven and lightning to restart her heart.

January 13, 2021.

 

The storm came with a sepia hint to the silver-black sky, as if it already knew the winds and rain it wrought would echo for eternity.

January 13, 2021.

 

Lightning cracked the sky sending Heaven's light through the storms.

January 13, 2021.

 

The storms grew vast, surging as the spring-melt river, the air in tight eddies, its playful vortices unaware of their own strength.

January 13, 2021.

 

The storm was a twirl of perfect black ballet dancers, each dressed in windswept grey. They danced to the roar of heaven's drum. They called lightning to their stage. For they were honour bound to come when the compass needed the music of the wind to send its needle full round.

January 12, 2021.

 

As with storms in nature, where the eye is a place of stillness, when you can see your own storms in good perspective, you will find yourself safe and better able to navigate.

January 13, 2021.

 

The storms separate the hiders from the heroes and villains, washing the stage clean for the last battle.

January 12, 2021.

 

In these storms I cannot fight the wind, nor keep the rain from filling rivers fast, yet I can move one and all to higher ground. I can keep as many safe as I can.

January 13, 2021.

 

She took to the storms as the wind was rocket fuel and the rain her beloved companion. For some are born to shelter, or to shelter others, she was born to tame what others never could.

January 13, 2021.

 

The storm came as the opera of the skies, the instruments determined to sing out, the trees and grasses as their percussion. Even the rain came in orchestrated rhythm, appearing as the master of the scene yet arriving on unheard cues. From within our home it gave a surging rise to our hearts, calling out that childish sense of adventurous joy.

June 24, 2019.

 

The lightning and the sun upon the cloud tops was the only brightness that day. The wind ran as if it had been restrained for time out of mind and it was determined to outrun any chaser. The sound of it was a strange song, as if howling yearned for a melody, and we watched the trees join in the unfolding scene, as if the change, though abrupt and startling, was as welcome as a surprise knock on the door. 

January 12, 2019