and bruised sky frames the Scott Memorial.
Thunder growls as if a god
is clearing his mighty throat.
The earth is shaken by a violent clap
on this soporific afternoon,
fawk lightning cracks the sombre clouds
and the lake is now free from summer crowds
as a torrent of rain descends
which the parched grass gratefully devours,
the willow tree swaying in a strengthening wind
as I wander alone like some
mad philosopher soaked to the skin.
It is frightening, yet exhilarating
and a thousand circles form in the lake
to vanish as swiftly as a snowflake.