The sound of thunder rain rapped on my ears
After arid dryness, what relief
To hear the sucking sound from dried up lawns
Though deserts of the heart are our worst fear
For Northern Britain, dryer than belief
The space for the Inferno’s ghosts had yawned
The peat rich moors by fire were over-run
Through mould of heather dry, and decayed leaf
No fear of rotting,under ripened corn
Yet still we ask, has Armageddon come?
What is its form?
How my heart sings 