Storm
This has every appearance of a hurricane.
Either that or the islandīs volcanic cone
is about to blow. Look at those trees bend
before the wind. This is not the place to be.
Run with the islanders who have shuttered
and boarded their wooden homes. Debris
rolls down derserted streets. People crowd the quay,
huddled in the downpour with their chickens and sheep.
The island ferryīs their only hope of escape.
They surge forward in a wave to board as
a single passenger presses against the flow.
A madman might be so eccentric. We know the way to go.
The ferry rocks on the stormy horizon
and the islandīs solitary occupant
is known by this unusual urge
to seek out the windīs compensations.
Mike
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