Petrichor

The youthful leaves tremble

In a tepid summer breeze,

Foretelling what is coming, though

The weathercock is at her ease.

The sky above the blue-grey sea

Is pregnant with possibility,

While Bran croaks, exulting,

From the lofty chestnut tree.

The softest whisper will begin -

Droplets on warmed pavement,

Jenny Wren shelters in the hedge,

To await the storm, she's safe within.

The air is freshened, oppression lessened,

While blessings pour down from the sky,

Thunder rolls, the heavens deafened,

Quieting the chatter of the magpie.

When all is done, there is no more,

The sky is sated - clouds not weighted;

Bran cries out from the sycamore,

Revelling in the glory of petrichor.