February Rain Storm

Painful as a knotted flail
   Beating on skin,
The punch-whistling wind
   Numbs your chin.

The spume-spinning rain,

   Glittering like glass,
Hiss-dances on roofs,
   Noxious as gas.

The bare-masted sycamore

   Wallows ungainly,
Flinging off finches
   Like souls in the sea.

The dirt-dark clouds

   Like heavy sponges
Daub across fields;
   Lightning lunges.

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© February 2014