Tempest, prosaic

The clouds congregate. All the sky grows barren and white – the earth, grey and trodden with rain; a storm blossoms over the horizon between. Showering darkness proceeds endlessly over the wetlands, and the woods, the moors, the mountains, and the slopes of the dew-laden downs. By the design of their own hysterics, the concepts of the world’s kingdom turn against each other; crow rending vulture, brother killing brother, the sky befalling the earth.

Lightning strikes the ground, hurricanes lacerate the arboreal domain, and cyclones loom over land and sea. All the globe is a churning deluge. Those previous assets of the terrain are without form or reason, particles lapsing through the maelstrom of the deep. Storm clouds roar with destruction from above, and the loam boils with the turbine of disarray from below. The chaotic abyss prevails.

And at the height of all godless impurity and malice, the heavens are flooded with light, and sunshine perforates the storm. The darkness dissipates; the tempest relents; peace draws slowly across the settling wasteland, and the earth rebuilds itself again.