As The Brook Flows By

Before Zeus's malevolent fury, I see the world bow,                                  

The storm, though, is far from over.          

The sky's draped in abysmally black shades of grey-fit for a widow

As the petrified onlookers on earth await an impending shower.

I sit by my window, notebook in hand,

Penning down elegies that eulogise me so;

Fruitless, as is tracing patterns in the sand,  

When I spot the little brook gurgling with a noise, insistent and low. 

I stare, transfixed for it intrigues me no end,

The brook, not unlike me, seems unafraid of the spiralling storm cloud.

Perhaps, while traversing each cruel curve and bend,

It has weathered far worse storms, thus reticence engulfs us both like a shroud.

It flows along, gushing over clumps of hyacinths that grow,  

Feigning serenity, composure, sentiments that neither of us will ever know. 

The storm-god's arrogant bellows have now given way

To psithurism and the furtive whispering of the air,

As pristine droplets rain down from the skies so gray,

Kindling within me emotions so inexplicable, so rare.

I now see the brook overflowing, flooding its narrow, meandering banks,  

As the alluring smell of freesia makes its way from the deliquescent grass.

Indeed, who knew it had so much water in it, so much rage,

This thrice-removed puny cousin of a river, so far down the ranks;

It rushes uprooting bushes growing in the silt en masse. 

The gale simmering within the crevices of my mind,

Has found its way on to my moist cheek. 

It seems that the grief encrusted chains my heart that bind

Have found some semblance of the liberation that they seek. 

The brook flows along, having seemingly abandoned its former petulance

-Now it flows with the belief that somewhere, the sea does await.

After all, one hopes and loves with far more conviction

Than the one that drives him to despair or hate.