Autumn Storms

The sky hangs heavy overhead, an unending
curtain of grey. The air is sodden and stinks
of ozone, almost chocking in its thickness.
Underfoot the ground gives way with a faint
squelch, the grass is dusted in a way that would shimmer,
glitter, sparkle if the sun would just peak
from behind it’s storm cloud sheets. Behind, the footprints
bare witness, the grass too weighed down to bounce back up.
Leaves have begun to turn, golden and red patches lounge
under the shade of multiple trees.

With ease boots are untied and shed, socks wrenched off.
The ground is tepid, and soft; the early morning dew
has had time to soak in. Umbrella and jacket are tucked away
in a simple battered book bag.

Anticipation builds as rumbles echo overhead,
the roll and dance of the sound is like primal music,
Nature’s own orchestra of wind and thunder.
With one final crack, the skylets loose its bounty,
and thick heavy globules smack down hard. Within moments
everything is soaked; clothesstick to skin and the ground
can’t contain all the moisture. The water runs around heels
and toes; drips from hair and end of nose; clings to eyelashes
and skin, and sluices off fingertips. Everything is washed clean
in the heavy cleansing rain; the first of the season.