Our Meadow

Trees whispering secrets

of times long ago,

dancing lithely in the breeze.

Animals lounging, laying, lazing

on tendrils of feathery emerald.

Then wind whooshing, whirling.

Trees hush their chatter,

creatures steal silently 

into the underbrush.

Winds whip around,

screaming, shouting, shrieking,

with blinding white streaks

and pertinacious hail.

This is our meadow. 

Finally, the tempest is mollified,

stubbornly stamping away.

A caring zephyr blows. 

And in the new day’s sky,

lays a shining, shimmering, brilliant

arch of unbelievable colour.