I attended a conference last week
that was tedium defined.
We were packed like tinned tomatoes
into a sweat-filled auditorium
and subjected to syllable after syllable
of barley audible rhetoric
on the musings of recycled rubbish.
I found my hotel there delightful,
and the receptionist sweet
while my girl-next-door delegate
simpered and smouldered and told me
she was married and in love
before I could turn my key.
I’ve never met a brief encounter
when playing merrily away
as a single guy.
On my second night in this esteemed company
I sat alone in the bar,
surrounded by learned chatter on the day’s
indigestible verbal trash.
Outside the mood changed
with a sky that threatened rage.
Charcoal clouds poured over the vast moor.
Rain swept the sward to a sodden morass
and lashed panes with a powerful, thunderous patter.
Conversations faltered and eyes turned with concern
to the world beyond the windows.
Suddenly, the lights failed and we plunged into night.
Some not-so-hardies bid good-day
while others remained to stay.
Amid the chaos of coming and going
candles appeared on table-tops
casting candescent light
through defusing glasses.
With a brightness of pure natural incandescence
the velvet night was silently
I looked beyond the shimmering French windows
as the rumbling
voice of thunder
shook us all.
Transfixed by the explosions
caused by colliding charged particles,
I watched skeletal fingers of energy
poke the moor,
lighting the night
This show of real power,
filled me with wonder,
Around me the rubbish conversation
Some delegates joined me
watching Nature’s might.
As the crowd thinned
in my ear,
“Isn’t this romantic?”
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