Stormling

She’s a storm.

At least

that's what she looks like

the moment we lock eyes.

Her hair is white

flowing into blue

and it swirls round her shoulders.

She's not fit for heat. She's too lively,

too robust.

Her jean jacket and skirt cover most of her

body, but

she looks refreshed

more than smothered. Her movement

is so fast that her sound resonates seconds

after she stills. Sitting down

next to me.

The charcoal in my hand shakes

as her thunder crackles. I hide

behind the shelter

of my sketch pad. The charcoal

gives the walls sharp edges

but rolls over the stone

shapes like smoke, barely visible

but all consuming

to the eye. The marks are hard

to make on dry paper

on a dryer day. But I feel

a shift in the air.

A charge

waiting to spark.

Her winds break through

my quickly flaking defenses.

My hands shake in the lofty breeze

as the storm closes in. She pulls the pad

downward.