Waiting for the storm
Animals in the compound, befuddled
And confused, take shelter under rusting cars and leaning corrugated-iron
sheeting
Leaving two young fawn dogs, torn
Between taking cover, or chasing each other’s elusive circling, gyrating curled
tails
Stopping suddenly, to sniff the changing shifting air
Above the coconut’s swaying leaves, tossing and weaving, anchored with no
escape
From the inevitable fingering of the dark blanket
Of storm- grey mountain cloud, laughing at the pea- green screaming high trees
Flustering, like an old lady’s Sunday-Best hat
Of peacock feathers, bobbling above the odours of moth-balls and cheap face
rouge
Sucking down the mountain’s menace
From an invisible mouth that targets the dogs, with a sniper’s kiss of white
lightning
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