An anger raging,
A rage convulsing,
No colour to its frenzy,
No substance to its grip,
No focus for its fury
But the winds wild wrenching flight.
Trees convulsed and twisted,
Writhed and wreathed, branches broken, trunks demise,
I sat and watched and wondered,
Relieved my anger was not so,
But found its vent in warm embrace and gentle lips,
Calm faery forest green, within the Storm.
© Greg Richards