Approaching Storm …
The tide turns without notice,
the swell and patterned waters ebbing slowly,
yet nudging bubbled waves against the sand,
as it withdraws, quietly,
leaving greenery in its wake,
like baubles left from mermaid’s play.
And gulls squawk in trill forays,
as if to fight for air itself,
while offshore gusts do whip the sands
with blasts of salt and spray,
lashing at dunes and banks of woody thickets,
easing afternoon’s betrayal.
As grey clouds encroach the yellow sands,
to dull them to a colorless hue,
as brooding distant giants do growl,
announcing thunderous lights ensue,
windows boarded shut out the squall,
and those inside await the front to arrive.
The seas now ache for tempest flow,
thrashing swells rise up in foam,
and the horizon ripples in the chaos,
as blackened tones race the sky
glaring electric flashing eyes,
and fires begin to glow inside those wooden boxes.
And houses creak and wail,
as thrashing winds push board and nail,
and trembling rooms by flickered light,
where souls huddle quiet by fires,
and hope the passing of nature’s bite,
and the seas give way to calm, respite.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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