We all heard it

It was the thunder
during countless summer storms,
the waves crashing against the shores,

Hidden by leaves
grasping to keep their hold,
the living trees fallen onto the road,

In ceaseless moaning
of once dried river banks,
the sure path of a rusted iron gate, 

Silent under ripples
in still waters by a crane,
the final drop of spring rain,

It was a deafening sound 
trapped in limestone tombs,
the rising of a tangerine moon,

Gabriel’s trumpet.