The skies are dark, pregnant as with an impending storm,
The wind is fierce, strumming out a strident wail,
Our tin shed creaks, as like a ship by wind assailed,
Whilst we all cringe,
In fear of what the storm will bring.
The rains come down, like hell’s pent up rage by fiends released,
Accompanied by hail, that batters down our scant solace,
Our threadbare clothes, no respite from the cold can bring,
As we sit mum,
Remembering when the sun last shone.
At last the rain and hail relent, as finally their force is spent,
The wind itself at last grudgingly abates.
The skies stay dark, but our fears they fade,
‘Cos we all know,
When tomorrow comes, the sun will shine.