Clear cold claps of thunder reverberate
Around cliffs of granite, streaked with grey rain,
And the wispy white wings of fleeing gulls
Duck and swoop across a vast, stormy plain.
Clouds swarm in the corners of existence
To find comfort and shelter? Why do they go?
The answer may lie in the falling drops
Pummelling the soaked ground like gentle snow
Each of them holding a chink of the sky
And each one weeping as it hits the earth
As the men at the port gather and point
At ships that are absent and without worth.
There’s a nervous love in the wringing hands
Of the figures waiting for wives’ demands.