BY DAY, TO THE WEST
The sea complains
in whipped ivory tumult.
The gulls complain beyond ususal
and I suspect even the cliffs complain
somewhere in their broad-shouldered silence.
Not yet, the rain, but soon –
soon for sure, as the rising gusts
rehearse umbrella pines – now a chorus line
of feather fans. In their shadow below, wind turns
the wheely bin on its side,
lid flapping like a thin spring coat –
glossy magazines and a crippled pizza box
spill out on the walkway.
BY NIGHT, TO THE EAST
The sky cracks like a pane shattering –
illuminates the midnight landscape
like a thousand moons – a few
manmade angles to distrupt
nature’s round signatures.
Instant replay still mute
before the guttural
menace arrives –