The Great Storm
Sea Storm.
The hand of the great
storm
bends the bow of the
willow
and whips the sea to
foam…
The long stretched waves
drawn as gum along the
tongue
are molten in the stride;
they roll their
licorice-black
into the stew pot of its
eye;
the mist rises 1000
meters high;
the boat rocks and holds
its course.
There is an overwhelming
sense;
might and unbounded
strength
in this wild untamed
auditorium.
Spread under imponderable
stars
lit by the surround of
the moon
commanding the tugging
tides;
the churning of its
orchestra
demands the gulls to
dance
to the lift and rise of
rhythm;
yet beyond its
deafening...
a voice calls...
©
Wendy Smit-Taylor 2016
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