That Storm At The Lake
by John Grey
There was something about that feeling
as if oppression and heat had followed us to the lake,
as if that same thunderhead
linked this solitary spot to the city.
We sat back on the banks and watched the dark sky move in,
felt that sag in the way of things
and then heard that rumble from somewhere off
like the distant guns must have sounded in Paris.
All that journey and we hadn’t gone anywhere.
But then lightning ignited the sky
and a crack of thunder boomed so loud
it shook the distant mountains
and rain started to come down
so hard we thought we’d drown in it.
We sat there, didn’t move.
If we were in the city, we would have scattered,
raced for shelter.
We were drenched to the skin
just so we could be some place we were.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Red Coyote.
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