The Storm Poem by Richard Netherland Cook

The sky is dark and dreary,
Each cloud a lonely flight,
Each raindropp becomes a river,
And day becomes like night.

The wind is at its' wildest,
Trees are torn and bent,
The storm in all its' raging,
Will not be content.

The thunder crashes, the lightning bolts,
Each building aches with pain,
The rivers know no boundries,
And streets are swelled with rain.

Its' fury spent, the storm now leaves,
A scar upon the land,
And knows not why it all began,
Or cares to understand.

At last we know a quiet still,
Our hearts a slower pace,
The wind that brought the storm at first,
Now brings a calmness in its' place.

By
Richard Netherland Cook