Mountain Storm

A poem about watching an approaching storm.

Long I have awaited the rain.
The first fast drops leap from the sill.
Gnats circle in place of swallows
Now hiding anxious in the barn.
Distant thunder sounds like the wind
Growling over our chimney. Now
The mountain is dark and angry.
I know all its moods. Coyly hid,
Unreal 'neath a lilac mist haze.
Sun throwing the crags golden, clear
Yet darkening the deep brooding
Lower slopes. Though these are but moods.
Its motherly face is changeless.
A sleeping giant, head on its arm.
The other arm, clad in green and
Purple heath tatters, protectively
Shields a tarn. For time out of mind
It has stood with its sister crags.
All are worn as sheep teeth, flaking
Boulders like snow on a shoulder.
They are gods, caring yet above.
Even the ancient ash tree by
The wall seems fragile next to them.
Torn by past storms, it is hollow,
A quiver sprouting fresh arrow shoots.
Time robbed the wall to boulder skulls.
An old bedstead patches a gap.
A pathetic, rusty gesture!
Wool knots the gold-slippered gorse bush.
We cannot keep the sheep out. We
Cannot keep time out. Or the storm.