THE STROM'S ADVANCE

 

The Storm’s Advance

The sky bruises purple,

a swollen fruit threatening to burst,

its edges frayed with threads of gold

where the sun clings, desperate,

before the wind’s rough hands

drag it below the horizon.

Salt hangs heavy in the air,

a briny ghost that stings my nostrils,

mingling with the damp musk of seaweed

torn from the ocean’s depths,

strewn across the shore

like the wreckage of forgotten ships.

Waves roar their warning,

a chorus of wild beasts

crashing against the cliffs,

their frothy tongues licking the rocks,

leaving a bitter taste of foam

on my lips, sharp and cold.

The fishing nets tremble,

their coarse fibers biting my palms,

as I pull them taut against the gale,

each knot a silent prayer

woven into the hemp,

fraying under the storm’s impatient tug.

Seagulls scream overhead,

their cries slicing through

the thickening silence,

a jagged melody

that echoes in the hollows

of shuttered homes,

their windows rattling

like chattering teeth.

The sand shifts beneath my feet,

gritty and restless,

a thousand tiny needles

pricking my soles,

as if the earth itself

yearns to flee

the dark veil creeping closer.

Rain begins its descent,

not gentle, but a barrage,

each drop a cold bullet

striking my skin,

smelling of iron and ozone,

a prelude to the thunder’s growl

rumbling deep in the sky’s throat.

The lighthouse stands defiant,

its beam a frail candle

flickering through the haze,

casting shadows that dance

like specters on the cliffs,

their jagged edges

tearing at the fabric of the night.

I taste the storm now,

a metallic tang

coating my tongue,

as lightning splits the heavens,

revealing the village huddled below,

a fragile cluster of lives

braced against the tempest’s howl.

And as the wind whips my hair,

stinging my cheeks with salt and sand,

I hear the sea’s relentless hymn,

a dirge for what may be lost,

yet a promise too—

that even in chaos,

there is a fierce, untamed beauty

carving its mark upon the world.