The storm is gathering over the bridge,
dark clouds as busy as bubbling flowers,
the water of the canal green and quiet
and the bustle among the bar tables on the bank
like the shuffling breath of an orchestra
in between rehearsals, claps, coughs, laughs,
and the sense of a whispered accomplishment like a current,
like tiny ripples on water or a cat purring.
A petal of light has just pierced the clouds
and towards the lagoon horizon
the sky expands in breezy largeness
and winds are free to sleep, in the soothing
lingering of the storm’s feet.
On this side of the canal two mallards are pacing
and a third one has just
laid eggs in her small floating box
where the sandbars she comes from
flash in a handful of hay,
where the tides swarm over the grass
and air roams in its perpetual gaze.
Scattered gusts, screeching shutters,
on the balcony the shifting fingers, the silky
conversation of branches.
In the silver silence of the wind
the cat casts its long miaowing
quiet and persistent like a moon.
You open the door and he comes in
with a gypsy belly of notes
asking to be gazed at and stroked
tasting carpet and wall, home’s skin and soul,
now it seems the storm has entered with him
with not much fuss, just winding and whispering,
the cat’s fur is discoursing with it
in veins of quietened electricity.
And the storm’s skin itself –you love thinking
it could linger endlessly- the cat’s whiskers
recording in sleep its trail of glances
like piano keys, its tale
of clashing arms
glittering in rest.
I remembered about this poem reading "Storm" by David King in his blog.