Sunday, March 11, 2012

Strait Winds


An aura of terror envelops my world
I cower as the winds rage ashore...
Finding the only peace in the storm,
Is to bend and fight it no more.

Tomorrow, shingles and plastic bags
Roost with eagles in the trees...
The plum crop and my eight hours sleep,
Lost forever in the breeze.

Seagulls will hunt beached casualties,
Soaring on the first rays of dawn...
Indifferent to if I lived or died;
Life on Penn Cove, carries on.

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