ON THE WIND

There’s a following

On the wind

That tells

Of something coming

Anxious gulls

Circle overhead

The dune grass stiffens

The acrid taste

Of brine and salt

Lingers in the air

The pensive sea

Sings with caution

As its rising tide

Breaches the weathered boards

And gives pitch

To the early moorings

The morning sun

Will soon relent

To the blackened sky

For it knows

A reckoning is looming

It has learned

To never doubt

The imminence

Of what follows

On the wind