***the Waiting Land

The windscreen wipers worked at such a pace, Large raindrops, heavy, thrown down by the storm, No distance could you see, all was a blur, No shape of tree or house, there was no form. The rage that was emptying all around, Gave vent to such an angry crashing threat. A terrifying rumpus did one hear, But violence had not quite arrived as yet. Sheer power then ripped the waiting land apart, Battering all of natures growing things. Striking like a cobra in the wet grass, Caring not what all such fierce anger brings. Best sit tight and then wait for it to ease, Once the main body of the force is spent. Jet wash for the car, it now shines anew, And raindrops again, but with softness sent. © Ernestine Northover