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.
