Gala The Word Wench
02-24-2004, 02:15 PM
Atlantic,
broad, wide grey---
the sky falling to the sea
like a dropped shade,
edging the horizon,
Storm clouds hanging as if from wire
impossibly swollen,
pregnant in form,
waiting to deliver the rain
to a sea that keeps its secrets
better than any tongue.
Waves excited, troughs deepen.
The wind strokes against water,
as if to create its own salty shower.
The sky deepens, lapping down,
the lick of rain an advancing dance.
The race of sheets a screen,
concealing the stage;
as the tempest rushes in.
Shadows wind whistling,
as the curtain rises.
Wind and spray, walls of wash,
bits of land chewed by impatient water,
wood worn smooth by wet and time,
and from the shore the drama
is observed---breathed.
This what Nature can do,
that we do not match or equal.
As the ocean charges in,
a tempest of walking salt,
dances toward the shoreline.
spray crying storm surge,
cascades the unreserved land.
The shore losing its innocence,
to the rasping recess,
of the waves grasping hands.
Eyes turned inward,
daring the elements,
turning the game face to the tides
and before we turn from this,
comes one wave
that could only be called majestic,
smashing to the sand like god's wrath
and making us feel
the percussion of a shore.
We can blame that last
for the tremble
as we turn on backs to the mighty,
and find our way to where the wind
does not know our names.
As the sun breaks the clouds,
land sated takes a breath--
exhaling a rising ghost,
of brine tainted air.
A shoreline left naked of pretense,
subliminal message etched,
in the absence of mortal sound.
broad, wide grey---
the sky falling to the sea
like a dropped shade,
edging the horizon,
Storm clouds hanging as if from wire
impossibly swollen,
pregnant in form,
waiting to deliver the rain
to a sea that keeps its secrets
better than any tongue.
Waves excited, troughs deepen.
The wind strokes against water,
as if to create its own salty shower.
The sky deepens, lapping down,
the lick of rain an advancing dance.
The race of sheets a screen,
concealing the stage;
as the tempest rushes in.
Shadows wind whistling,
as the curtain rises.
Wind and spray, walls of wash,
bits of land chewed by impatient water,
wood worn smooth by wet and time,
and from the shore the drama
is observed---breathed.
This what Nature can do,
that we do not match or equal.
As the ocean charges in,
a tempest of walking salt,
dances toward the shoreline.
spray crying storm surge,
cascades the unreserved land.
The shore losing its innocence,
to the rasping recess,
of the waves grasping hands.
Eyes turned inward,
daring the elements,
turning the game face to the tides
and before we turn from this,
comes one wave
that could only be called majestic,
smashing to the sand like god's wrath
and making us feel
the percussion of a shore.
We can blame that last
for the tremble
as we turn on backs to the mighty,
and find our way to where the wind
does not know our names.
As the sun breaks the clouds,
land sated takes a breath--
exhaling a rising ghost,
of brine tainted air.
A shoreline left naked of pretense,
subliminal message etched,
in the absence of mortal sound.