Perched cliff side
At the precipice of land and frantic sea
The craggy granite face on which I stand
Collides and Ignites white burst all about me
And my precarious hanging home
Laden with mantle of stone
Becomes a vulnerable reverberating bunker
As I pray it not fall asunder
Seaward I peer over the gray witches work
And the Tempest becomes me
Menacing whirlpools and sinister sea swirls
Its swollen surly mood
Its ire and wrath
Pouring through me in torrents of untold emotion
Promoted by the Sea’s ceaseless commotion
As the swift gale skips the usual mollifying metaphors of the rain
Nothing soothing
Nothing settling
No echoes of escalating droplets pelting the tin roof
No rhythmic shutters slamming
No time for thoughtful contemplation
Nor evocation of broken romantic memories
Until I turn the volume right!
And while shards of the pouring darkened sky and sea
Shred and assault thee in sideways fury
I become encased in the Jazz Master’s saucy reverie
Where mind and mood meld and morph
Straight to a lingering state of melancholy
As I invert and postulate the ‘Green into the Blue’
And conclude that the storm will pass to verdant pastures anew
In unison with the long lonely note
Of Mile’s muted trumpet….