Weathered, I, her fierce and erratic outbursts the only way I knew how … with my nose buried deeply in a pile of comforting hay.
Sonnet XVIII … Temper’s Storm
Tis summer’s heavy air that cloaks my back
And lifts aloft the biting critters fierce.
And in the distance sounds a mighty crack
As fork of lightning through the skies doth pierce.
The mounting storm with drama doth embroil
We gentle souls who cringe on Earth below.
Yet will I not my dinner let it spoil
And munch away while braving Nature’s show.
For while the skies may darken as the night
And birds upon a wing may flit and cry,
I must, perchance, contain my yen to flight
And bury nose in hay as tempers fly.
Thus, if a mighty wind my peace destroy
At least I will have died a happy boy.
See you anon at Poet’s Paddock …
Shakespeare “The Equine”
Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012