The storm is coming. All its heat
will be driven upon us. Yet before it comes let us thwart its malice and make a
sweet love upon the grass. Let us impress our lust upon its soft, green, blades
and leave the shape of our ardour as hollows that wait for a quenching flood.
Then we shall also wait satisfied and yet still thirsting. But that shall not
be the end, for we shall wait to taste the first drops of rain. Savour the
clear drops that fall upon us and let them wash away our drying salt of
passion. There under cover of endearment we will watch the lightning sear
gloomy skies and such a thunder shake us, we shall think we are in the throes
of passion once more.
