TEARING

Bora day, straight claws of air

in a breathing swarm on the strand,

you shiver stared at by the blinding sunlight’s teeth.

The world is broken through and sails wide open,

the sky is an almost aching blue that seems

to have never enough of being scraped clean and pierced.

You skirt the undulating line of foam rags,

dried crests bubbling on the hardened sand,

torn sizzling bits swelling in the wind like spun sugar

and with simple jerks cast forth in the roaring

bright emptiness, far beyond all you know now for sure:

your body gaily thrashed forward by the swaying gusts,

your breath and your hammering heart, so close still

and not yet torn apart.

 

It's not raining here but I feel this close to "Storm Brewing", in David King's latest post.