The porch is dry as am I 

While sheets of rain stream

Down mere inches away

Thunder rips a monstrous tear 

In sodden heavens fired by

Unseen lightning 

The draft humid miasma extends

Cloying tendrils  which stealthily hunt 

the fibres of my wooden sweater

Seeking remorselessly to chill me

To discomfort’s sundry discord 

Yet I remain here on this brink 

Of wet and dry savouring the

Yin and Yang of nature’s spell

Knowing I am nothing amongst

These titans