THE FUGITIVE

In the hush of early even
The clouds came flocking over,
Till the last wind fell from heaven
  And no bird cried.

Darkly the clouds were flocking,
Shadows moved and deepened,
Then paused; the poplar's rocking
  Ceased; the light hung still

Like a painted thing, and deadly.
Then from the cloud's side flickered
Sharp lightning, thrusting madly
  At the cowering fields.

Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,
Down the hill slow thunder trembled
Day in her cave grew frightened,
  Crept away, and died.

Home.
Mystery destination!

(Saturday, 25 April, 2026.)