Clad in violet, Rodrigo murmurs
of the blue hammer, and how it, unbridled, and with
precise swiftness, pulses, so that
all butterflies fly up, a brightly colored powder cloud.
And Natasha opens her beet-red mouth and
lark throat, and cries out the cry.
The hurricane is amused by his children.
Seeing Natasha sit demurely, callous
brown feet under turquoise skirt,
he muses complacently that here
the shalvars have not overrun shame.
And the hurricane for a moment releases
from his hairy fist with thick brown fingernails
the cords. What change in the children!
Rodrigo, fire-red and furious, jumps onto the cart
of a cloud, beating the cloud neck with his
coral whip, while Natasha, sublime beauty,
thrusts cold green dragon fire from her eyes,
kicking silver spurs into her giant locust’s sides.
Twitching, the tender children of the hurricane
spread, riding, rage and destruction, the foam of violence,
the sand grinding between one’s teeth, the snow which
numbs, the murderous circle of greedy waters.
Look at Rodrigo’s purple cheeks, Natasha’s hunting
vest blown open, the tender children gone mad,
the fist’s bent brown nails in control.
Where are the butterflies, where is the lark cry, the
quiet hammer of the pulse, the time of powder clouds?
The hurricane pulls back the cords. He laughs
wide-mouthed, showing the gaps between his teeth,
sentimentally squinting his golden brown eyes.
– James Steerforth ( © 1981 and 2008 )
An old poem I remember very well retrieved and somewhat revised for Totally Optional Prompts.