Through prisms of Moroccan glass
rainbow colours shed,
white walls are brushed with pastels
the storm has passed, has bled.
The shutters still are shuttered,
the gutters blackened full,
the forecast lies un-uttered
the lunar tide still pulls.
The silence falling soft now
a breeze whispers to the calm,
the count is for the cost now
yet un-accounted goes the harm.
© Wolfgar 2020