Mother Nature’s hissy fit.

Stained brown with overnight rain,
the river licks its banks as ducks ride its flanks.
Bobbing in the corkscrew eddies stirred up by
nature’s breath.

I sit, snug behind double glazed panes,
as gales and gusts whisper in pain. Snatching, grasping, snarling,
like a rabid dog whipping foam over the river’s skin.

Bewitched by the pushing, pulling, biting wind,
spindly trees enchanted, entranced,
dance to Boreus’s tune, releasing a snow flurry of leaves
to swirl and coat their underbellies.

In the grey rushing sky white tipped gulls twist
and fly, dipping in and out of harm like wing-ed lucky charms.
Playing the wind, conducting each stanza of Ein Aplensinfonie:
wings as batons beating stormy time.

I prefer to sit in my comfy lair, warm air and unruffled hair.
Playing Riders in the Storm on my stereo. Being in rather than being out.
Drinking steaming coffee and daydreaming of Summer 

as Mother Nature has her hissy fit.

 

Holyhead to Dún Laoghaire

The Sea.

Neptune’s trident churns and turns
snarling chastising chastiser.

Hissing boiling white water tips.
Punching the decks with salty fists.

I.
Safe inside the threadbare snug bar
have a jar or two (purely medicinal of course)

and through a porthole eyeball the sea
as it eyeballs me.

And children.

Noisy feral snotty wretches.
Ruddy faced urchins, and teens with issues
and giggles and angst.

Teenage angst.

Run wild to a child.

And mothers soft with love
and hard with life talk shit
aboard the ship.

Then.
With headphones on
and volume set to 21.

block the insipid, driviolic chatter
with Level 42 and Sum 41.

Later.
As we near port,

the feral kids, their mums and I.

Neptune’s sea.
A millpond.
Welcomes.

With gentle ripples
and salty kisses.

On land we lubber.

Engulfed by Irish wind and rain.

Feral kids blubbering
from a smack around the head.

GOD!

It’s good to be home again.