Poetry

The thunder branches, crackling down blue-white,
on the inner eye the power
of God is lingering.

*

At the old pond each raindrop circles out wide
before a fish gleaming gold
brake through the calm surface

*

With the first cold rain shower that is falling
steam hisses in snow white clouds
reaching up to heaven

*

No croaking frog or cricket that screams shrill
can be heard above the noise
of a train and lorries.