[Adapted from the poem "The Storm" by Alison LR Davies]

It starts as a faint purr, rippling, beckoning,
stealing the evening's baking heat
It steps to the side, foot tapping, hop skipping
Without formation, no sense of the beat
And then comes the mean, heartrending echo
Low and beguiling, starting the show
The murmur resounding, a tightening of air
As colours emerge, the wind starts to blow

[Chorus:]

He's coming, he's coming, the crux of the message
A silvery swordsman, no mercy to spare
He'll slice and he'll sever with sparkling precision
The weapon his fortune, the dragon - this air

And most run for cover,
they know of his venom
The fury with which he will mount his attack
But those with a nerve,
and bubbling curiosity
Won't be so hasty to hide or turn back
With a crack of his whip
the tears start cascading
Great rivers of truth washing over the land
In praise or in pity, in fear or forgiveness
The thunder is slain, the demon at hand

[Chorus:]

He's coming, he's coming, the crux of the message
A silvery swordsman, no mercy to spare
He'll slice and he'll sever with sparkling precision
The weapon his fortune, the dragon - this air

And the threatening rumble, a music soon faded,
a great composition now rendered complete
The mottle blue heavens now
gather in whispers, to wait for the encore
A black cloudless sheet