Peeping Tom

Poem Eight –

Icy finger tips spiral and coil around my throat,
The air is chilled and brisk,
My spine shivers with electric anticipation,
tiny raindrops begin to patter atop my head.

The wind howls and screams in anguish,
like a teething baby without a mother,
My red nipped ears recoil from it
in pain and fear.

The storm is coming, it’s rising, it’s beginning,
My frozen hands flecked like old, cracked china
with the painted patterns of thread veins,
My cool breath dances like cigarette smoke.

Finally I hear it, the deep, sonorous rumble,
the loitering thunder booms into being.
My heartbeat begins to canter excitedly,
and I wait.

The lightening illuminates the darkened sky,
The shining bright crack cavorts childishly,
Elements coming out to play like mischievous imps
that we’re lucky to glimpse.

By Becky Bite

A very British spring

Poem four – http://napowrimo.com
A painted sky gleaming with gold lies to me,
The cruel wind blasts my cheeks and threatens to tear tears from my eyes,
The brutal cold moves up through the bench, into my skin, my bones and to the very core of me,
Wild air caresses my legs and slips inside any crevass of clothing left unguarded,
Stray strands of hair tickle my nose and distract my streaming eyes,
The piercing frost creeps gently along behind me as I walk away,
reclaiming its land once more from the receding sun,
I head hurriedly along towards the distant lights that signal warmth and home.