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Prelude to a Tempest by Doug Tanoury I walked down on the pier today, The one that stretches out far into the lake. The wind grew stronger the farther I went. The sailboats weathering the squall In the shelter of their wells, All wobbling and rocking slightly, Ropes slapping against their metal masts With a rhythm and percussion Made from the music of a primitive dance. The surface so fully textured, Wind swept and rolling, All of it alive with motion In a wild rippling and rising, Bursting and breaking, That is water raised to a full boil, With the whistling swoosh, That is this prelude to a tempest, I stood at the very edge of the pier, And faced the approaching storm. The water is a mixture Of grays and greens Blended with a painter's knife On an artist's palette, And pasted thick in sweeping strokes Onto what has become the lake today, And alone on the pier, Wanting only to see and hear, Taste and smell, And fully feel the wild sensation Of being taken deep within A passing storm. |
