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 danger distance 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.