Rolling in.


The storm pushes up the valley

Like a lump in the throat

Like sellotape fire
Like sea chest cymbals

Like dumping it’s burden
Like counting the danger

Like spell cast petrichor
Like skid-sod blitz.

I love a good thunderstorm. From the humbling immensity to the fear ( you’re just a little scared too, right?) to the sweet smell and electric crispness in the air once it has past.

Hail on the other hand, I can totally live without.

Ian Miller

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