An Africa Thunderstorm

From the west Clouds come hurrying with the wind Turning sharply Here and there Like a plague of locusts Whirling, Tossing up things on its tail Like a madman chasing nothing. Pregnant clouds Ride stately on its back, Gathering to perch on hills Like sinister dark wings; The wind whistles by And trees bend to let it pass. In the village Screams of delighted children, Toss and turn In the din of the whirling wind, Women, Babies clinging on their backs Dart about In and out Madly; The wind whistles by Whilst trees bend to let it pass. Clothes wave like tattered flags Flying off To expose dangling breasts As jagged blinding flashes Rumble, tremble and crack Amidst the smell of fired smoke And the pelting march of the storm.