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.
