Poems
Continental Storm
When the rain died down
and the sky grew lighter,
we ventured out, as if survivors
of some dreadful accident.
The landscape had become
glossier, more distinct.
Rinsed from dust, the air
smelt of wet young leaves.
We roved the vineyards,
watched the water run down
the dusky purple globes,
drop to the thirsty soil.
We stood, irresolute,
just as we had stood
when bathed in sudden light,
in the eye of the storm.