Rustle

It starts with a whisper,
muttered half phrases
and small slanders shaking
leaves, pushing wind chimes
into gentle collisions.

It grows into a conversation
between the land and the sky
the grass snaking sentences
each second, the clouds
impatient and interrupting.

It mutates into an argument,
branches slam with fury
into glass panes, the sky
shudders every second,
everywhere is screaming.

It ends with a whisper
sincere apologies
as the last drops fall
and the discussion returns
once again, to birdsong.

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Written very fast in the half time of Bristol Tonic, responding to the prompt ‘Start with a Whisper.’