Little Weather

Their florid dresses go up in a gust of wind, 

Gasps are heard for miles around; these senses are under arrest. 

For a second, a moment stood in nature’s paw, 

Upon the very precipice of the living, 

Staring in the crevice of ancients, of long ago, 

The verging line now lies beneath our feet, 

Which had much success, seperating body from soul. 

What happiness, there are no raindrops, 

No dollops on the playground, that might persuade, 

Somebody that there is sickness coagulating in the air, 

A malevolence called discomfort, 

The venom in heavy fabrics and heavy hair, 

That could make the mass decide a swift exodus, 

Influx from the deep breath of the outdoors. 

The whooping wind will come again, 

And again, 

And again, 

And steady many shivering waists. 

His secret: maintain suspicion, 

Lift skirts, but never be seen, 

No stark revelations, hasty conflagrations, 

Just a mumbled whisper in every ear, 

Colour spines in deep enigma, 

Snore upon somebody’s sleeping ear, 

Catch naked ankles and paint them red. 

But always remain transparent, 

Remember the duplicity of being clear. 

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