Storm

Spent all evening alone on the strand

watching a storm’s elbows resting on the horizon,

but now its shoulders are rising.

Once, God’s eye was the centre of every storm;

even now these Himalayan masses of charcoal-coloured anger

seem to throw the earth to its knees.

The sea, wearing requiem black, is a writhing mass,

the birds have all disappeared down a hole

and the cattle in the fields are humming nervously to themselves.

I feel the molecules of air around me are like fireflies;

as the clouds roll in on the wheels of their blue undersides,

even the rocks appear to be sentient.

I must hurry, lock myself away, shiny white conductor that I am.

I must dig myself a burrow;

hide myself from the angry God of the sky.