Storms don’t bother him any more.
The rumble and tumble of distant thunder
brings a modest smile to his face,
and one could guess, from his inward look, the peculiar comfort it brings.
In his mind is the fleece of the cottony quilt in his childhood bed.
Dirty grey and dark inside,
but soft and safe.
Safe with his own private sun.
Muting giants’ voices
perhaps until the morning.
Always there to hide his fearful tears.