Storm in Western Cemetery By Tim Jarvis

Drums in the canopy pounding, Rain fists on timpani leafs roar. Looking up from James Henwood's stone, Awestruck beneath the thundering dome. Too soon the fat drops will come, Falling on the Madonna and I. But for now we can only sit dumbstruck, Shielded by ivy-clad trees from the world outside. The Madonna of the undergrowth is made of stone, But I know she hides a child's heart like mine. And I fancy we are both flying through Dalby Forest, Cannock chase, or my childhood Somerset wooded hills. We soar over Yorkshire Dales and Clinton's Devon, Darting and weaving through Sherwood remnants. I fancy, Madonna, you turn to me and smile, And I know it's time to run. So I run crashing through rain bullets, Splattered undergrowth and out across, The sodden traffic-choked river-road, To cower, gasping, dripping . Safe in this piss-stinking phonebox.

Tim Jarvis started writing poetry in 1979 as an alternative to keeping a diary. He has moved past purely journal poetry to reflecting mostly on the human condition and the beauty of nature. Tim has been published in a few anthologies and zines and for his sins, edits WAH! www.wah.org.uk

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