parade day

The wind in the grass
is a relay race, 
with cloud shadows
playing across each face.
Each blade in waves overtaken
by flying bands bright and dim 

overhead, all marshalling
forth from the sky's dark half,
as the storm way over there
drags in.

Still a good way off, well 
these sports and games 
are heralds with streaming
banners 

proclaimed and directed
from trumpets
aloft, and the distant 
booms 

still too far to hear! 
But the whole pageant tells 
of it drawing near. 

"It will miss us," I scoff 
"just a bit to the South," 
but I secretly know 

there's a lie in my mouth.