A Poem


There is no sun—clouds swoop

towards the earth threatening rain.

Flowers of every hue of you

smile up from growing,

As though expecting love.

The cloudburst strikes

And whether for life or love,

consummates all expectation.

Passion is like that: a flash flood

coming on with little warning.

The object need scarce appear

to transform the wasting heart.

A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.