An African Thunderstorm.

From the west

Clouds come hurrying with the wind turning sharply

Here and there

Like a plague of locusts whirling

Tossing up things on its tail like a madman chasing nothing.

Pregnant clouds ride stately on it back gathering to perch on hills like dark sinister wings; The wind whistles by 

And trees bend to let it pass in the village screams of delighted children

toss and turn in the din of whirling wind,

Women-

Babies clinging on their backs dart about in and out madly

The wind whistles by

whilst trees bend to let it pass.

Clothes wave like tattered flags flying off

To expose dangling breasts as jaggered blinding flashes 

Rumble, tremble and crack

Amidst the smell of fired smoke and the pelting March of the storm.