Poor Relatives

Robert Morgan

The cloudburst leaves a brown meringue,
a kind of foamy candy on
the pool below the culvert where
the runoff plunged headlong to whip
a head as light almost as air,
as if the ditch possessed by such
a powerful overflow had made
a froth around its mouth, and built
a spume the way a running horse
will sweat a lather on its neck.
The dirty bubbles in the ditch
now seethe and tear to pieces as
they float upon the passing flood,
poor relatives to clouds above.