Last Ripple

In a coracle of interwoven nights,
the last of the thunderstorm
is curled up like a foetus,
spent.

The last of the thunderstorm
in an iridescent veil,
counting down on her prayer beads,

Is curled up like a foetus,
a star blinking in her solitary tear,
breath snagged in the shredded clouds,

Spent,
her purple rage peeling
from the walls of the unborn sky.

In Trimeric form- a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and the sequence of lines in the next three stanzas is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.