When I was in infant school I starred in a small thespian production. My role was that of ‘Clerk of the Weather’ over which Ihad total control and I wore a top hat to prove it!. I was able to command thunderbolts, raindrops, wind, sunshine and so much more.

Last week in France, the dry spell, as in England, was interrupted by thunderstorms. Flooding followed before hot spells returned.

Inspired by my memories of that wonderful few moments of power, I wrote this little poem..

The Clerk of the weather has heard the peoples’ cry!
from his well stocked store house he scrabbles around
throwing thunderbolts over his shoulder
followed by a splendid light show of forked beauty
illuminating the indigo sky, crackling like witches!
His generosity knows no bounds as he adds thunderbolts and whirling winds.
Deluge after deluge of pooling rain deliciously kisses the ground.
The orchestra of thunderous drums beats across the sky
accompanied by a light show of immense power.

The Clerk laughs gleefully,
loving this reckless cacophany reaching down to crash upon the earth,
soaking into parched and thirsty ground.
But as the water floods across the baked soil the people cry;
Enough!, Too much!
Never satisfied.

The Clerk of the Weather draws breath and blows a wind so violent,
it drowns their protesting voices and buffets them into submission.
The Clerk thus reminds them just who is in charge.

Thunderstorm over Falaise. 17th August 2022

[Mr G]

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