When the storm comes on her liquid wings
she is breathless and expectant,
full of passion and promise,
restless for activity and release,
burdened with the tensions of her journey
over mountain and sea,
proud and furious,
playful and wild
- where is the suitor to woo
and win this turbulent bride?
Heaven help the groom who tries to tame her,
Who can know what will bring her to her knees;
Maybe a wind with gusts to match her own,
Or miles of open water cross the seas
So that she can expend her strength at last;
Perhaps a heavy rain to quell her rage,
Even a mountain range to block her path,
There is no way that anyone can guage
With any certainty where she will go
Or what shell do; she may decide to play
A game that will keep her suitors guessing;
But then again she might just choose to stay
In one place, for even storms must rest
Their weary heads upon a shoulder ere
They fizzle out and die an early death;
For storms also suffer from wear and tear.
Monsoon bells are ringing on high,
children are dancing in puddles
- in his multi-coloured celestial palace
the Prince of Rainbows is polishing his armour,
preparing for the wedding feast.
The thirsty earth drinks deep draughts of beautiful rain,
uncaring of the destruction wrought, not long since,
upon its tenderest plants and small shoots of grain,
luxuriating now in blissful coolness
after the worst of the energy's spent;
flowers blow their clean-washed trumpets
forests sing like emerald harps
lazily plucked by dryads and zephrys
drunk on love and excess
- only sleeping dogs and tax-collectors are peeved:
there is no tax on heaven's joy
and bank-managers sit morosely behind their desks
counting the profits they are not making.
Neither Storm nor her suitor know it yet
but the date has already been set,
the clocks set in motion by Heaven's decree
- but the water-buffalo knows it
and permits the Rainbow Prince to ride upon his back
that he might enter the city in disguise,
mischief playing in his eyes...
before he spreads his radiant arch
across the wide sky's azure pavilion
he'll have some measure of fun himself,
visiting some pretty maids that he knows
along the ancient waterfront
and if he still has a moment of time
he'll call in on a poet or two
down to their last can of soup
and searching for a missing rhyme,
or some delirious artist perhaps,
all but penniless and reduced to using
cheap wine for turpentine
as he celebrates promiscuous nature
with colour and passion,
his ardour unrationed,
his reason usurped by the mad, passing seasons
the call of Storm's song
still strong on his senses,
the wild bird of beauty still riding the storm-front
above all borders, barriers and fences...
she is breathless and expectant,
full of passion and promise,
restless for activity and release,
burdened with the tensions of her journey
over mountain and sea,
proud and furious,
playful and wild
- where is the suitor to woo
and win this turbulent bride?
Heaven help the groom who tries to tame her,
Who can know what will bring her to her knees;
Maybe a wind with gusts to match her own,
Or miles of open water cross the seas
So that she can expend her strength at last;
Perhaps a heavy rain to quell her rage,
Even a mountain range to block her path,
There is no way that anyone can guage
With any certainty where she will go
Or what shell do; she may decide to play
A game that will keep her suitors guessing;
But then again she might just choose to stay
In one place, for even storms must rest
Their weary heads upon a shoulder ere
They fizzle out and die an early death;
For storms also suffer from wear and tear.
Monsoon bells are ringing on high,
children are dancing in puddles
- in his multi-coloured celestial palace
the Prince of Rainbows is polishing his armour,
preparing for the wedding feast.
The thirsty earth drinks deep draughts of beautiful rain,
uncaring of the destruction wrought, not long since,
upon its tenderest plants and small shoots of grain,
luxuriating now in blissful coolness
after the worst of the energy's spent;
flowers blow their clean-washed trumpets
forests sing like emerald harps
lazily plucked by dryads and zephrys
drunk on love and excess
- only sleeping dogs and tax-collectors are peeved:
there is no tax on heaven's joy
and bank-managers sit morosely behind their desks
counting the profits they are not making.
Neither Storm nor her suitor know it yet
but the date has already been set,
the clocks set in motion by Heaven's decree
- but the water-buffalo knows it
and permits the Rainbow Prince to ride upon his back
that he might enter the city in disguise,
mischief playing in his eyes...
before he spreads his radiant arch
across the wide sky's azure pavilion
he'll have some measure of fun himself,
visiting some pretty maids that he knows
along the ancient waterfront
and if he still has a moment of time
he'll call in on a poet or two
down to their last can of soup
and searching for a missing rhyme,
or some delirious artist perhaps,
all but penniless and reduced to using
cheap wine for turpentine
as he celebrates promiscuous nature
with colour and passion,
his ardour unrationed,
his reason usurped by the mad, passing seasons
the call of Storm's song
still strong on his senses,
the wild bird of beauty still riding the storm-front
above all borders, barriers and fences...
