The front moves in, a grey distant ridge,
clouds amasses and at attention,
as blue fades to the dying embers of day,
the gloaming a half-hearted golden breach
of the grey army oncoming.
The chill now set in
as light hides behind an unwilling horizon,
rays splayed out and barely touching the grey,
now moving as if in gallop across the darkening sky,
its ominous discourtesy portentous.
Night beckons the dying shadows,
and lights now spot the vast land,
houses gripped for the coming change,
and shutters shut and locked tight,
to secure those tiny boxes, at nature’s whim.
The bay turns white with crested foam,
as seas rise and slap the shore,
while boats of oar and mast rock petulantly,
their ropes creaking and taunt,
struggling with the mooring.
The last gulls cry from heights,
way above the sand and shore,
trying to find an exit from the stream of blasting air,
that brash offshore pounding,
that precedes the front’s arrival.
Darkness now weighs down the evening,
as all retreat inside, with fires burning,
and streets are now deserted,
the sea-spray whipping the cold night air,
and a dog barks, as an open gate crashes.
Eyes peer from windows frosted,
as rain begins its relentless deluge,
and winds batter every surface,
rattling, tin and wood and fences hinged,
awake to a chaotic embrace.
And nature vents is anger,
as we in warm abodes, weather her spite,
as darkened night of winters harshest plight,
seals us in our homes.
Tony DeLorger © 2016