the rush

dribble and spill, boil the earth.
never relent, there's always more dirt,
no dirth of canny or wile or wit,
stick with the feeling, slow roast it on spit.
quickly it slips and runs through the fingers,
barely 'twas here and rarely it lingers.

find me a hearth with altar and pot,
deepest of armchairs, luxurious cot
not cot but wide bed for feverish dreams,
warmed with pan embers, oozing their steam.
no robots, no technics, no furtive machines,
find true friends and lovers and pillows sateen.

storm: it roils, wriggles and falls,
begging for humans to huddle in halls,
begging for hot hearths and lofted archways.
savor the end of these lands' parched days.

no smoke will curl,
no town will burn,
whilst thickening skies
rumble and churn.

loose are the hounds, foul, uncouth.
when dismalness settles, will it settle you?