By Bill Cotter
The storm rambles and tramps, hammering pine trees,
Strafing crops and, from the tangled clouds, spilling jags
Of lightning that stab the secret hollows, briefly freeze
The sharp outline of sheds and razor backed crags,
Then, like reptilian tongues, coil away again.
As the rain, romping at first through the stacks of wheat sheaves,
Hardens to a sheet metal grey, rasping crops and sheds,
Like skirts snatched from helpless girls, the brown veined leaves
Of fruit trees float across sodden flower beds.
And the pigs, like waiting war machines lie in their pen.
With their brown, curved backs and rock smooth heads down,
Far down, in the pools of semi dark, bunched cattle
Stare out and see, before the people of the town,
The squat, metallic herds approaching and hear the rattle
And gravel growl of predators controlled by uniformed men.
Image by: Tikkho Maciel