Fury of the Gods

Soft patters rustle like crawling, shimmering Tendrils, like the sound of creeping paper Or wispy strands of hair in the late Sunday afternoon breeze, Loose leaves floating a few inches off The ground, till little circles print on the ground Like bullet holes First, a shower of rounds, Then a volley of roars, liquid pebbles pelting Car tops, rooftops, and the unfortunate Head left out in the diluvian onslaught When he spurned the message with wanton scorn As he rolled on for another go at his riotous score It’s a parade of clouds, A barrage of sighs, A collection of heaves Like a hundred wretches retching A thousand regrets, Or a thousand rejects for a million poor decisions Summon the dancing whirls, The peals of crashing cymbals ringing to the Deafening applause of metal and concrete, Hushed acquiescent murmurs, And the biting witness of hypothermia: Do not attend a concert you weren’t invited to, Not even if it’s just outside your window — Or you risk being left in the nameless street; Do not eavesdrop on another’s conversation, Especially when you hear your name — Or you risk an icy arrow in your offending ear Summon the baleful eyes that wink up there When the greys part with blinding incandescence, Glimpses into threatened futures, Or the glint of swords parrying and thrusting Into the belly of the air, reaching to Divide age from age and time from times As the beginning, so is the end, Bellowing nothing after bellowing nothing, But the certainty of silence above your Own voice — for while it speaks, You hear nothing, Your breath like whispers Against its thundering thoughts It’s a pageant of winds, A contest of moods, A sport of tempers, Like a sky darkened by fluttering bats, Like a sun gone black with greed, Previews of the coming dusk For when night comes early And strangers huddle together in forced truce: To turn your neighbour out when the pour Begins is to paint the devil’s arse on your face When the drums roll for the fury of the gods