Lead grey skies enfold like shrouds <br />To clothe the rain lashed mountain peaks <br />Birds huddle down with open beaks <br />Protesting to encroaching clouds. <br /> <br /> <br />Few trees give shelter from the blast <br />Though gnarled and twisted limbs can grow <br />Where no green leaf would dare to show <br />Defiance, once short summer’s past. <br /> <br /> <br />A lone man walks the lonely fells <br />And gazes at the lake below <br />Where once he with his love did go <br />To laugh among bright heather bells. <br /> <br /> <br />Within his hands he holds his dreams <br />Contained within a silver urn <br />Soon scattered, for frail man must learn <br />That fate has her own plots and schemes. <br /> <br /> <br />Then, facing land so harsh and crude <br />Like life, that he no longer fears <br />He walks and sheds his angry tears <br />The storm an echo of his mood.<br /><br />Irene C S ClarkHogg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/storms-13/
