Black-bellied clouds roll in like ocean waves,
On angels’ chariots of white washed light,
The vaulted ceiling of the sky they raze,
And seem to turn the light of day to night.
The lightning splits the sky with foul intent,
In a spidery hand across it scrawls,
And to the magic in the air it lent,
While violent wind and bitter cold rain brawls.
I stand upon my solitary hill,
Alone in wild abandon and fierce joy,
Better out here than at the windowsill,
Demanded to stop acting like a boy.
For boys and girls alike go wild sometimes,
We each have moments; this moment is mine.
Cassandra Whittem is possibly the most cynical, sarcastic and least romantic person that she knows. Luckily, her friends mistake this quite serious character flaw for an endearing quirk. She grew up in the US of A where she learned that colour was spelt without a U, Indians had nothing to do with India and it really is a bad idea to lick street-lamps after snowfall. She now lives in Highton with her imaginary friend, Tyler.