STRANGE WEATHER


Valdepeña, 25th April 1881

It happens at night, very rarely: a pup wind
schooling itself in mischief, the devil’s air
scout in attendance, a backthrown bile-spit behind
him, apprentice meddler, fingers everywhere.

No marsh nor pond’s immune. Though spawn and fry
seem gridlocked within their weed-bound world,
this wind convulses painfully to apply its
ascensionary lever. Skywards lives are hurled,

up into a primal, swirling gloop,
nursery of clouds, damp atticful of care.
Thermal cushions and nutritious soup-
rich miasmas keep these wee hearts beating there

till critical mass drops flesh from sky to plain
in a lordly benediction, as frog rain.­