Thunderstorm - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In a storm it can be tough to recall the light, hard to see the temporary nature of such beasts. When the raging deluge is closer to your skin than the air, when it thunders louder than any bird could ever sing and pushes harder than boat oars in the sea waves - it can only burn itself out. Storms come masquerading as knife and coffin yet are neither, they are more as the tough love teacher who crosses the line. Learn to shelter through the gales, seek refuge in the rage, yet do reflect and embrace the gifts we can discover when it vanishes, that's when we find new chances to flourish, to make something good after its passing.
Black clouds sprawl across the sky, billowing in from the west. Their brassy glare drains colour from houses and trees and burnished cars in driveways, leaving neighbourhoods tinted bronze in the faltering light. The air grows heavy and the humidity presses down, suffocating. The scent of rain is dark and heady. A stillness falls over the street, and in the silence comes a low crackle of thunder, rolling across rooftops to the pattering of tiny raindrops. For a moment, everything stops. Even the wind holds its breath. A streak of hot silver splits the sky, and the downpour begins.
The boom rolled across the valley, announcing the start of what the brooding cloud layer had promised since dawn. The boughs of the trees swayed in the strengthening gust, surrendering their fall leaves without a fight. Then came the first drops of rain like bullets to our tin roof and we peeked through the closed shutters to the vegetable patch beyond. Outside is dark, the dense grey cloud block out the morning light, casting us in premature twilight, but inside our home it is darker, almost black, and so we can see out just fine. On the far hill a jagged bolt of white hot lightening splits the chilly sky, and then it is gone. The thunder is only a second behind and whilst us kids wear unfettered grins, our parents are gaunt and pacing, exchanging tense glances. Then comes a banging like someone is taking a sledge hammer to the roof and in time with the noise a few shafts of weary light are making shadows on the walls. Then Mamma shrieks "The roof, Harold, look!"
Tabitha had never been shy of a little rain. As a girl she had embraced the wet days, her sister would stare mournfully from the window, but she would have on her rubber boots and rain slicker and out she'd go; splashing, jumping, drinking the drops in her open mouth. So when the wind picked up on her cliff-top walk, three miles from home, she glanced up at the blackened cloud that dominated the sky above and felt a rush of excitement. After a few experimental drops the clouds unleashed a torrent of water, driven by s wind strong enough to push the gorse bushes flatter and scatter their golden petals like confetti. The waves became titans, smashing into the sandstone below, and the sea that had been so dark under the gloomy sky was now white with foam and spray. Between crashing waves, howling wind and lashing of rain on her head, she could not hear above the din and her vision was merely a few feet. Her feet began to slip in the newly wet mud and she backed away from the cliff edge.
The sky became dark and low with ominous black clouds and the wind picked up, howling, crying, warning, baying like a wolf into the night. The first crack of lightening rent the air and within seconds the rolling boom of the thunder reverberated overhead. Soon the rain fell, slow to start, splattering the sidewalks haphazardly. Then it fell as if from buckets, cascading like a waterfall from the heavens. It pounded on the roof as if it were demanding entrance.
The sky was as grey as a coal miners handkerchief and so low that the world felt small and close. The air was thick with the sweet smell of the coming storm and no thing had a shadow; for we were all in one great shadow. When the first drops of rain fell they were as large as the tears I had cried for Papa only last week; each one splashed down without mercy, wetting my dress through before I had run a few yards down the lane. And then when the puddles had formed the rain danced in them like watery sprites. The lightening flashed on a far away hillock, like a serpent of brilliant light sent to bite the earth.Then the sky shook with the cry of the thunder and I ran all the faster for home.
There was a mutter of thunder from the blackened sky as the wind tore leaves from the trees. The rain lashed down, torrential, unforgiving. Newspaper blew along the street and umbrellas turned inside out.
The thunderstorm was coming. There were growling, ominous dark clouds gathering above, looming over us. There was a sudden downpour and through the rain drenches air came the first long low rumbles of thunder. The violent unforgiving wind raced through the streets and the clatter of loose roof tiles could be heard from above.
It was a muggy day with a hint of thunder. The wind was swirling and gusting. The sky was leaden and the boughs swayed and creaked.
Above our bowed heads, all tired from the battle, there was this impervious carpet of grey vast. There was that thunder which seemed to snap the air, as if the heavens were to split apart.