A Matter of Timing

The wind blows. If you sit still you can hear
the seagrass rustle, restless blades slapping
one against the other. If you sit
still, you can hear the ocean,
just over the dunes. Even here, where
you cannot see them, you know
there is a wildness to them, an anticipation
of the next storm.

The clouds blow in. In the short while
as you lay on the sand they have gone
from postcard puffballs to black wraths. They will
grow darker still.
If you sit still, you can see the birds in the grass
as they hunker down. They know
what is coming, as they draw their heads down
under their wings. It is not a time for flying.
They know.

You know too. It is all a thing of timing,
staying long enough to witness
the change of weather. Beautiful
and terrible, all
at once, staying long enough to see
every change in the world around you,
the dark miracle of storms,
but not so long, you become its victim.

About this poem

I love watching storms as they approach. I hate being caught in them. True in weather. True in life.

Be well,

Tom