Storm

There is a petrichor promise on the breeze,

It whispers in my ear 

Of a wide western ocean and a muddy salt marsh.

Of meadows studded with cowslips and cuckoo flowers.

Up. Up. Over the hill where the ancient bones deep sleep in the secret caves. 

Down. Down. Across the wide valley where the wild hares play and over a Tudor home built for an old King.

Evading the swirling trio that catch such unwary winds with their sleepless skyward twirls. 

It then suddenly arrives at me in a flurry of exuberant celebration, that it was faster than the fat. Lazy. Drops, of warm rain it heralds.